The Road Not Taken
by goosefeather
Summary: AU. The team travels to Iowa to deal with a case that hits close to home. As the investigation unfolds, it soon becomes apparent that there is more to this incident than meets the eye. In fact, this could be the linchpin Jane has been looking for.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This story is an AU begun after the first season. Assume canon through 'Red John's Friends.'

Disclaimer: I do not own the Mentalist.

* * *

"_Daddy?"_

_Jane squinted through the bright light. A small hand brushed his knee. He looked up into a smiling face, the deep blue eyes wide and happy, framed in a mess of golden curls. _

"_Would you like some tea, Daddy?"_

_The child handed him a plastic cup barely bigger than his finger. He sipped the tap water and smiled, trying to remember why he felt a familiar dread stirring in his chest. _

_There was a stuffed tiger seated to his left. The child reached out to pat him on the head. The tiger winked._

_Jane finished his tea._

"_That was delicious. Can I have some more?"_

_She grinned, dimples creasing her round cheeks as she took the cup back from him and refilled it. Little puddles spilled over the edges, pooling on the table and soaking into the red cloth. The table grinned a watery smile._

"_Here you go, Daddy. Would you like some cookies?"_

"_Cookies?" he gasped, sending her into a fit of giggles. "Why, of course I would love some."_

"_Ok, Daddy. I'll be right back."_

_But as Jane watched the little curly head disappear through the door, he knew, somehow, she wouldn't be. In these dreams, she never came back. _

_The tiger lifted a cup in his stuffed paw and began to drink._

* * *

The Road Not Taken

2013

Monday, May 13

5:43 am

The thin light trickling over her shoulder traced patterns of shadow into the polished tile at her feet. The flitting shapes seemed to grow and bend, like waves lapping at the edges of a rocky marble shore. She could almost see the foam begin to circle her ankles, pooling around her feet as they sank into wet sand.

Lisbon blinked. She needed coffee.

"Jane?" Her voice felt raw against her throat.

The consultant, who had been reading a flashing screen labeled 'Departure Times,' turned to face her.

"Take Rosie? I'm going for coffee."

Jane wordlessly held out his hands as Lisbon carefully shifted the sleeping child from her shoulder and into Jane's arms.

She turned to go, but then stopped mid-stride to look back at them, blinking the glaze from her eyes. "You want anything?"

Jane shook his head.

"Cho?"

The other man, seated on a nearby bench, looked out over the top of a book he had been staring at, unseeing, for the past quarter of an hour. "No. "

Lisbon nodded and left, her footsteps joining the cacophony of sound reverberating off of the glass walls of Sacramento International Airport.

* * *

3 years, 5 months ago

2010

Thursday, January 7

3:17 pm

_A grey rain tapped gently against the paned glass of the tall windows. The building hummed with the tide of office noise. Lisbon, in her drifting thoughts, wondered why someone didn't record it onto one of those meditation soundtracks. It would be much more soothing than "jungle sounds," anyhow. Something she could fall asleep to, if she didn't have a stack of Jane-related complaints to manage. She sighed, glaring at the inches-tall pile of forms. Sometimes she wished she could file one herself. But that would only mean more paperwork. Instead, she contented herself with the thought that they had closed yet another case and Jane was currently occupied with pretending to sleep on the couch. She glanced up, just to make sure he hadn't moved or decided to use his spare time to hypnotize the janitor. That was when she noticed Rigsby standing in the doorway of her office, regarding her with a strange apprehension she hadn't seen since his first weeks in the unit, when Cho had convinced him of her determination to write him up if he didn't bring her coffee at exactly 7:30 every morning._

"_Yes?" she addressed him, wondering how long he had been standing there._

_Rigsby shuffled his feet, hands in his pockets. "Uh, Boss..?" _

"_Uh, Rigsby?" she replied, amused. He looked like he was standing in a pile of fire ants._

_He cleared his throat, eyes flitting toward Van Pelt's desk as if assuring himself of something. Lisbon braced herself for what she anticipated would be a highly uncomfortable conversation._

"_Um. I know you have rules for a reason. And I agree with most of them." His gaze stayed firmly planted on the ceiling._

"_Most?" _

"_Uh… yeah." _

"_Rigsby. Spill," she said, waving her pen sharply in the air as if directing an orchestra. And… crescendo._

"_Boss? Grace and I…" He looked her in the eye for the first time. "Grace and I would like your permission to…see each other."_

_Lisbon cleared her throat, trying to conceal a smirk behind knit eyebrows. _

_She hasn't responded yet, and Rigsby started rambling. "I mean…romantically. 'Cause we see each other every day without your permission. I mean… with your permission. Not— not that we need it to see. Um… But, if…we'll… keep it out of the office and stuff. No one even has to know… We just wanted your permission because Jane would probably notice and make a big deal about us not telling you. Of course we wouldn't have tried to hide it from you, but w—"_

"_Rigsby! I know."_

"—_didn't want it advertised—" He stopped frantically searching the office walls for a script. "You…know?"_

"_Rigsby, everybody knows. Hell, even the AG knows."_

_A blush crept up Rigsby's neck and settled itself on the edges of his ears. _

_Lisbon casually flipped a page of one of the complaints—the senator's wife—and sighed. "I knew it was probably a matter of time before it came to this. Actually, I'm surprised it took this long."_

"_Well, Grace was worried she would have to leave the unit, because she's the junior agent. But, boss, if one of us has to leave, I'll transfer to the cyber crimes unit or…"_

"_Cyber crimes, Rigsby? You can barely execute a database search without catching some sort of computer retrovirus."_

"_Yeah. Maybe forensics has an opening…"_

_Lisbon already regretted the words on the tip of her tongue. "Listen, Rigsby. I—firstly, I want you to understand that this doesn't end with me. I may be your boss, but I have a boss, and he has a boss who has a boss. I appreciate you coming to me with this, but rules are rules…and there is nothing I can do about it."_

_Rigsby deflated before her eyes._

_She held up a finger. "But before you pull a career change, let me just say that I can't… explicitly ban you and Van Pelt from… seeing…each other—as long as I don't specifically have any reason or evidence which may lead me to suspect that such a thing may or may not be going on…" She gave him a significant look. "Got me?"_

_Rigsby's face split into a quick, nervous smile. "Thanks boss. I promise, we'll be—"_

"_Save it for Minelli. You're going to need it." _

_Rigsby practically skipped to the door._

"_Oh, and Rigsby?"_

_He poked his head back through the doorframe, trying, and failing, to conceal the grin spreading across his face. "Yes, boss?"_

"_Be good to her." She met Rigsby's eyes over the glimmer of her metal desk lamp._

"_I will." His grin grew impossibly wider as he whirled around and strode toward the bullpen._

_Lisbon wondered whether she had entirely lost her mind. Firstly, there was no way this was staying out of the office, not with Jane analyzing their every move. And what about if they decided to go long-term with this? Actually, what about _when_ they decided to go long-term with this? She was pretty sure Minelli was going to put in his two cents, which in this case meant firing both her ass and Rigsby's. But, she decided, at least someone in this unit deserved to be happy. And it might as well be them._

* * *

2013

Monday, May 13

5:48 am

The coffee was lukewarm. The twenty-year-old kid behind the counter was by himself and still half-asleep and forgot her sugar and travel lid. But it was coffee, and she welcomed the bitter distraction, sipping muddy water out of a thin paper cup. Feeling the exact moment when the buzz of the caffeine hit her, she made an effort to peruse the rows of Harlequin novels meant to entertain airline passengers during the inevitable delays. Walking through the shelves upon shelves of men and women pressed upon each other in compromising positions, eyes wide with passion, she wondered how the world could be so naively melodramatic. Pausing at one particular cover, a couple silhouetted against a brilliant orange sunset, she let herself be intrigued enough to pick up the book, if only to mentally discredit the cheese sure to be dripping from its tagline.

"'Never forget these days of wonder and bliss.' Catchy."

Lisbon turned to see Cho staring over her shoulder at the words printed across the picturesque beach. She smiled a little, meeting his solemn eyes with hers. "Funny, huh?"

* * *

2010

Friday, April 23

11:33 am

_Minelli waved a tattered paperback in the air. The book was obviously an older edition, faded and ragged at the edges, a relic of Minelli's younger days with the CBI and probably not referenced much since then. He had his own way of doing things. _

_Though Lisbon could barely make out the words printed in bold across the simple white cover, she knew them by heart. She also knew why Minelli's face had turned that particular shade, and why she was standing in his office, unscheduled, three minutes into his usual lunch break. She just hoped she knew what she was doing._

_Minelli glanced up at her and began. "Lisbon, I remember reading something in this CBI Code of Conduct Manual you love so much," he growled, slipping on his reading glasses and cradling the book in one hand. "Now, what was it again? Hmm, Let's see. Ah, yes. 37 C under Interpersonal Relations. And I quote: 'There are to be no—'"_

_ "'—romantic involvements and/or fraternizations between members of the same unit.' I know." She sent her best piercing glare toward Minelli._

_ He was unimpressed. "Oh, so you know? Then why, Agent Lisbon, is there a blatant defiance of this rule within your own team? You, of all people?"_

_ Lisbon sighed. This day had come sooner than she had wanted it to. "Boss, I have always respected and followed—"_

_ Minelli coughed._

_ "—done my best to follow departmental regulations. Even with Jane, my team is the most by-the-book in this building. But—"_

_ "Discounting, of course, the insubordination, disrespect, and indecent amount of complaints pouring in here every week."_

_ "Jane, Jane, and Jane."_

_ "Yes, and now for once it is not Jane. You have no scapegoat for this one. Van Pelt and Rigsby—"_

_ "Exactly. Van Pelt and Rigsby. When have you ever had to deal with Van Pelt and Rigsby being out of line? You can trust them with this one."_

_ The flush in Minelli's cheeks was darkening at an alarming rate."Trust? They should have come to me about this months ago!"_

_ Lisbon grimaced. "Well, if you didn't notice it for this long, they must have been keeping it out of the office pretty efficiently. What's to say they can't—"_

_ "I am to say they can't, Lisbon! You're grasping at straws here. Why is this so important for you of all people to be sticking your neck out, albeit in vain, for their romantic lives?"_

_ The echoes of his outburst died down around them. A wide-eyed secretary from Interpersonal Affairs stared through the glass door before recovering herself and continuing down the hallway, clutching a cup of steaming coffee._

_Minelli held Lisbon's gaze for a moment, then cleared his throat and glanced down at the stack of papers cluttering his desk before continuing. "Even if it were up to me— and it isn't, Lisbon—how do I know this won't affect their working relationship? The ability of your team to function?"_

_ Sensing a shift in her favor, Lisbon took a step toward Minelli's desk. "If it would compromise that, I wouldn't be standing here. Our team is already close. Any group of people expected to work under the conditions we do needs that to be able to function. Would you prevent us from working together because we care? If anything, it helps us do our jobs better."_

_ Minelli grunted. "That's beside the point. Would Rigsby, if forced to chose between Van Pelt and the good of the team, choose the team?"_

_ "Boss, Van Pelt is part of the team. What's good for her is good for the team. I think that's an unfair question."_

_ "Oh. You think?" _

_ Twenty minutes later she walked out of Minelli's office, nearly running into Rigsby in her haste to escape both her boss and the raging headache he had given her._

_ Rigsby waved a file. "Hey, Boss. Jane told me you were talking to Minelli about…us." He looked slightly guilty, as if it were still a secret. Which she highly doubted. If Minelli knew, the whole building knew. "So, um, what'd he say?"_

"_Honestly, by the end of it we were both just arguing for the sake of argument."_

_Rigsby frowned at her._

_She sighed. "Aside from saying that they shouldn't exist, the Code of Conduct doesn't have a specified procedure handling interoffice relationships. So, I think for now he's leaving it alone until something—his boss, your actions—forces him to do otherwise." _

_ "Listen, Boss…" He ran a hand through his short hair. "I'm really sorry about all the trouble this is causing you. We really appreciate—"_

_ Lisbon shook her head. "Don't thank me yet. Actually, don't thank me at all. It's Minelli who's really sticking his neck out there for you. You guys are on thin ice. One complaint, one bad call, and you could land in the basement with the cyber crimes nerds. And somebody could be out of a job." She eyed him significantly._

_ "Got it, boss. We will be careful." _

_ "I know."_

* * *

2013

Monday, May 13

5:52 am

Her eyes clouded over as he reached past her to replace the novel. "What?"

"They delayed the flight. Storm in Denver."

Cho watched as Lisbon's grip tightened around the paper cup, creases mapping her fingers as she let out a steadying breath. "How long?" she asked, the strain in her eyes evident, though he knew she was trying not to show it. Especially around Rosie. She was being strong for them, and he wished he could tell her not to. He wished he didn't depend on it.

"Hour. Maybe two. They say we should still make the connecting flight."

"Where's Jane?" She searched the crowds moving behind him, as if hoping to find Jane in the transient sea of passengers.

He couldn't remember ever thinking of her as small. He supposed she was, or at least smaller than the rest of them, but somehow it hadn't registered before. Maybe it was the fluorescent lighting of the café's blinking red sign. It cast strange shadows.

"With Rosie," he replied.

"She still sleeping?"

"Yeah. Hasn't moved."

"Good. Tell Jane I'll come get her in a minute." Lisbon turned back toward the drink counter, tossing her cup forcefully into a trashcan. "This coffee tastes like crap."

He nodded, ignoring the small sound audible over the splash of liquid against an empty plastic bin.

* * *

2010

Wednesday, June 9

4:13 pm

_"You gonna drink that?"_

_ Rigsby didn't answer._

_ Cho ripped a piece of paper from a notepad on the conference table, balled it up, and tossed it at the back of Rigsby's head. _

_ "Hey!" Rigsby spun around. "What was that for?"_

_ Cho just pointed at the Big Gulp dripping beads of condensation onto the report Rigsby was supposed to be writing. "You gonna drink that?" he repeated._

_ "Why?"_

_ He returned to his own report. "Because I bought it. And if you're not going to drink it, I will."_

_ "Fine." Rigsby took a loud, petulant sip, making sure to look back at him. "You happy?" _

No_, he thought, watching as Rigsby's chair turned back to its desk. It was one thing for Rigsby to be slightly unhappy at the thought of an afternoon of paperwork, but avoiding—and even refusing—the consumption of food was an entirely different subject. And while it wasn't really any of his business, he supposed he should ask._

_ "Everything alright with Van Pelt?"_

_ Rigsby, who had opened a drawer of his desk, slammed it loudly and grunted an affirmative._

_ "Ok," he shrugged, still somewhat perturbed, but choosing to leave well enough alone._

_ "Hey, do you mind? I'm trying to sleep." This, of course, came from the direction of Jane's couch. Cho sighed, returning once more to his report and trying to remember the name of the victim's mother-in-law. Jane, being a consultant, did not have to do paperwork. Even though most of it was accrued because of him._

_ Rigsby, apparently, had the same thought and decided to call Jane's bluff. "Your eyes are open."_

_ "So?"_

_ Rigsby snorted. "So, you could try actually doing something useful instead of lying around on the couch and complaining."_

_ "Rigsby, there is nothing useful to do," Jane complained, the lightness in his voice belying his groan._

_Cho disagreed, though he didn't feel like arguing with Jane over the usefulness of paperwork._

_ Rigsby just grunted and opened the drawer again. This time Cho noticed it was his snack drawer and had to hide a smirk. Rigsby could be such a girl sometimes. Van Pelt had probably banned another one of his favorite chips, and he was mooning over them from afar. _

_ Jane shifted on the couch, continuing with what Cho supposed was a boredom-induced hazing. "Rigsby, what would Grace say if she saw you sneaking Doritos?"_

_ To Cho's surprise, Rigsby looked flustered. And it wasn't the 'yeah, I shouldn't have been sneaking chips again from my not-so-secret snack drawer' fluster. It was the 'I really don't want Jane to find out about this' fluster. Curious, he stood up as a grinning Jane joined him behind Rigsby's desk. Before Rigsby could protest, Jane yanked open the drawer._

_ It was a tiny velvet box._


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: The title comes from the Robert Frost poem of the same name.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Mentalist.**

2013

Monday, May 13

5:54 am

Lisbon made her way to the plastic bench where she had left Jane only minutes ago, but was not surprised when she discovered he was no longer there. Peering through the early morning crowds, she finally spotted him standing in front of a large window overlooking the runway. The sun was rising, its light blazing through the glass so that most of what she saw was the dark outline of his suit jacket against a bright orange canvas.

She approached him slowly, not wanting to shift the blanket of silence that seemed to surround all of them these last few days or wake the child sleeping against his chest.

"Hello, Lisbon."

She came up beside him and took a slow sip from her new coffee, waiting for something to say. "Nice view" was all that came to mind, so she said it, if only to feel words coming out of her mouth.

He remained silent, but turned to face her. "Yes," he replied after a moment.

Lisbon shuffled her feet, one hand in the pocket of her blazer as she studied the floor and then his face. "I can take her for a while. If you want."

Jane glanced down at the head of auburn hair resting against the grey of his suit coat, a twinge of something coloring his features. But then it was gone, and he was handing Rosie to her and turning to once more face the glowing glass.

* * *

2010

Sunday, October 24

7:12 pm

_"You looked lovely today, my dear."_

_ Lisbon whirled around, nearly spilling champagne down the front of her dress. She sighed, straightening the blue satin before raising her eyes to his. "Why do you do that?"_

_ "What?"_

_ "Sneak up on people like that." She squinted at him. "It's annoying."_

_ Jane grinned. "Why the long face, Lisbon? Don't you know there's a wedding on?" _

_ "It's the reception."_

_ "Technicalities, woman. And avoiding the question."_

_ "Shut up, Jane."_

_ His smile just got wider. "Oh, lighten up. Look, even Cho's smiling." He pointed over to the corner of the room where a smirking Cho was watching Rigsby sneak up behind Van Pelt, a hunk of cake in his hand._

_ Lisbon nearly choked on her sip of champagne. "Van Pelt! W—"_

_ It was too late. Grace, hearing her name, had turned around just as Rigsby let go of the cake. He had meant it to hit the back of her head, but it was now instead smeared all over her face. _

_ Rigsby looked horrified. "Grace! I didn't mean—You weren't supposed to—"_

_ He was cut off by Van Pelt's laughter and a piece of cake in the face._

_ Lisbon let out a breath, a smile forming at the corners of her mouth. She turned to Jane._

"_You knew that was going to happen." She put on her most accusatory glare._

_ Jane shrugged. "And whose fault is it she got it in the face?"_

_ Lisbon grinned, then punched him in the arm._

_ "Ow."_

* * *

2013

Monday, May 13

6:38 am

The departure times flashed across a blue screen. The storm had passed, and they were to board in 45 minutes.

Cho had gathered their carry-on bags and began dividing them between himself and Jane. Lisbon, after losing a half-hearted argument, was left to sit on a nearby bench, counting the seconds until they were airborne. Rosie's soft breath whispered across her chest, the child's small fist grasping the ever-present golden cross.

It took three calls before she realized that "Boarding now, all families with children" meant them.

* * *

2011

Thursday, May 26

3:08 pm

_Grace spun back and forth in her chair, feet pressing against the walls of her desk to propel her motion. The computer screen was a dizzying blur of letters and numbers as she watched row after row of data scroll by. She was running the suspect's phone records against a list of Sofia Morrison's contacts. All three hundred of them._

_A little beam of light peered through the tall windows, casting a dull warmth around the room that made her eyelids feel heavy._

"_Sleeping on the job?"_

_Grace jerked her eyes open to find Rigsby standing in front of her, casefile in one hand, coffee in the other. "No," she sighed. "Not trying to, anyway. I'm just…really tired."_

_Rigsby's look of amusement took on a tone of worry. "Do you need to go home? Maybe Bailey and Seymour could fill in again. Like a dry-run for the maternity leave. I'll ask Lisbon—"_

"_No, it's ok," Grace cut him off, "I'm fine. Besides, Lisbon's got me running Townsend's phone records and I've got about five more pages of financials to go through."_

"_Hand me the financials." Rigsby rolled Cho's chair across the aisle._

"_What?"_

"_Hand me the financials." Rigsby gestured at the pile of paper on the corner of Grace's desk. "I'll look through these while you finish running the phone records. Maybe we'll get out of here in time for dinner at Roselli's." At Grace's grimace, he added, "Or maybe just some take-out at home."_

"_You know what I really want?"_

_Rigsby grinned. "Let me guess. Pickles and peanut butter."_

_Wrinkling her nose, Grace shook her head, a look of confusion on her face. "No. Cilantro. Isn't that weird?"_

"_You hate cilantro, so yeah. But good for me the little guy likes it," he said, casting an approving look at Grace's swollen stomach. "I've been craving Mexican all week."_

_Grace eyed him as she shuffled a stack of papers. "Didn't you just do out for burgers with Cho at lunch?"_

_Rigsby glanced nonchalantly at the paperwork in his hand. "Yeah…and?"_

"_And you're not six months pregnant."_

"_So?"_

"_So you probably shouldn't be eating a cheeseburger and a burrito on the same day. You know how many calories that is?"_

_Rigsby grumbled. "No. But you're probably going to tell me."_

* * *

2013

Monday, May 13

7:31 am

The space between them was a vacuum. Somehow, silence seems emptier miles above ground in a pressurized cabin.

Jane's vacant stare navigated the contours of the seat in front of him, as if attempting to decipher a code hidden in the calico upholstery.

Cho's hands gripped the metal armrests, his white knuckles belying the distant expression on his face.

Lisbon's fingers drew small circles into the fabric of Rosie's sweater, the material rippling in waves of magenta.

Rosie's eyes began to open.

* * *

2011

Monday, August 8

1:41 pm

_The waiting room of Mercy General was cramped, crowded, and perfumed with an unfortunate mixture of rubbing alcohol and copy paper. A gale-force wind from an inappropriately placed air-conditioning vent kept Lisbon's hair from sticking to the back of her neck, but otherwise served only to chill her so that she could no longer feel her fingers grasping the sludgy coffee Cho had procured from the hospital cafeteria. Jane had long since abandoned his chair beside her and instead sat at a small plastic table constructing a tower out of colored wooden blocks. Lisbon was sure it would topple any second; he had placed the blocks at such odd angles and it seemed he had every intention of knocking it over once he had finished. He was about to set the last red block atop the teetering tower when a young boy rammed the table's legs with a plastic truck, sending the entire structure tumbling to the floor._

_ "Family for Mr. and Mrs. Rigsby!"_

_ Cho, who had been interrogating the charge nurse about her job qualifications, was the first to fall silently into step behind the woman in printed scrubs. The hallways seemed to elongate, the afternoon sun flashing through the windows and painting their shadows against door after door on the opposite wall. They stopped after a while, the nurse's hand resting on the steel doorknob of room 815. Lisbon nodded for her to open it._

_ It was small, but cozier than most hospital rooms. Grace was propped up on pillows, a faded blanket covering her legs. The sunlight streaming through the window made a blond halo around her auburn hair. Her gaze was directed to the corner of the room where Rigsby sat in a rocking chair, a small pink bundle in his arms. He had eyes for nobody else._

…

_ Jane, succumbing to stereotype, slipped silently into the gift shop. He looked casually around, remembering a similar day about twelve years ago. To his surprise, the thought brought him a small smile. He wandered through row upon row of stuffed animals and brightly-colored greeting cards before settling on a fleecy white lamb with a blue ribbon tied around its neck._

_ Carrying his prize, he made his way toward 815 and opened the door. Van Pelt was asleep on the bed and Rigsby was in the chair next to her, holding her hand and snoring slightly. Apparently they were out for the day._

_ Jane backed out of the doorway and followed the signs to the nursery, pausing to gaze through the glass at the rows of infants in their bassinettes. He shut his eyes and let out a sigh before pushing the door open. Rigsby…come on…Quinn, Randall, Regis…ah, Rigsby, Joanna Rose._

_ Joanna Rose was sleeping silently, her miniature pink hat askew. Cautiously, Jane stepped closer. He studied her face, bittersweet memories clouding his thoughts as he ran his finger over her small, soft hand absently, reminiscing. The baby opened her eyes, which were for now the deep blue of early infancy. Jane started to pull back, expecting her to cry. But she just stared wonderingly up into his face. His smile reached his eyes for the first time in days. _

_ "Hey there, Miss Rigsby." _

_He rustled around in the gift shop bag and presented the little lamb._

"_Here's something for you, my dear." He laid the lamb in the corner of the plastic bassinette. It received the same wide-eyed stare he had a few moments earlier._

* * *

2013

Monday, May 13

7:32 am

The little girl squirmed in Lisbon's lap, eyelids fluttering as she awoke. Making a face, she burrowed herself into Lisbon's blazer, rubbing her eyes and hiding from the glare of the small round window. The sun had fully risen now and seemed to stare straight through the double-paned plastic. Jane reached over and tugged the shade down until only a sliver of white light was visible.

Rosie's eyes were now fully open and she peered at Jane from behind a fistful of blazer, thumb in her mouth as she readjusted the graying lamb against her chest.

"Hi, Bug." Jane's lips pressed together in a muted smile.

Rosie waved with her free fingers, then removed her thumb. "Car?"

Lisbon shook her head, shifting her weight in the seat now that the little girl was awake. "No, Posey, not a car. Remember Jane showed you the book? The airplane book?"

Rosie nodded solemnly.

"The airplanes fly in the sky and take people to other places. We're on an airplane."

"Aplain?"

Lisbon nodded.

"Where we going?"

"We're going to Iowa, remember?"

"Iwa?"

"Yep. We're going to Iowa."

Rosie replaced her thumb in her mouth, contemplating. "Where's mama?"

Lisbon's hand stilled against Rosie's back, looking from Cho to Jane and back again.

Cho cleared his throat. "She's in Iowa. We're going to see her now."

Then, steady as ever, Cho returned his gaze to the black shine of his shoes and tried to convince himself that he had not just lied to his best friend's daughter.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you all for your reviews.**

* * *

2012

Saturday, August 11

3:34 pm

_"Where's the camera?" Grace's voice rang from across the hall._

_ "Over there," Lisbon pointed. "Next to that…thing."_

_ "The party hat, my dear. The thing has a name."_

_ "You knew what I meant."_

_ Jane nodded, conceding her point over a mouthful of pretzels. "I did, but only because I was able to follow your wild gesticulations in its general direction. Poor Grace, however, possesses neither my skill at deduction nor the ability to see you from all the way in the kitchen."_

_ Lisbon harrumphed. _

_ Grace emerged from the kitchen and, with a sympathetic glance in Lisbon's direction, made to pick up the camcorder sitting next to the cone-shaped party hat. _

_ "Okay, we're ready," she called over her shoulder._

_ Rigsby appeared, arms laden with a round chocolate cake frosted to look like a puppy's face. Cho followed behind him, a rare smile peeking around the edges of his lips as the cake was set in front of Rosie's wide eyes. He placed a single candle in what looked like the puppy's forehead and lit the match. The flame grew and was reflected in Rosie's blue eyes as they became ever more entranced with this bright light hovering in front of her._

_ "Wayne, make sure she doesn't touch it."_

_ "She won't."_

_ "Ok, ready? 1, 2, 3…"_

_ The rather scraggly rendition of "Happy Birthday" was punctuated with a drum roll by Jane, playfully reluctant jazz hands by Lisbon on the urging of Jane's quirked eyebrows, quiet clapping by Cho, and a lunge by Rigsby to prevent his daughter from plunging her hands into the puppy's eyes. Van Pelt, whose hands were occupied with recording the whole affair, contented herself with a grin that spread across her entire face._

_ As the last wobbly note hung in the air, a tinny jingle joined the mix. Lisbon apologized and excused herself to the kitchen._

_ "Lisbon."_

_ "Agent Lisbon? This is Officer Jason Calvin from Oakland PD…"_

* * *

2013

Monday, May 13

3:20 pm

Amos Van Pelt stood under a potted tree in the corner of the Des Moines Airport lobby, eyes searching the crowds rushing in front of him, his faded blue ball cap the only fixed point in the blur of hair and cell phones and sunglasses.

The first thing Lisbon thought was how he almost drowned in the faded leather coat draped over his shoulders.

"Excuse me, sir? I'm…I'm Teresa Lisbon." She stumbled over the blank space where her title should have been. It was hard to define exactly what role she was playing here. For now, she was just Lisbon.

"Kimball Cho," was all the introduction Cho gave, though his eyes softened visibly.

The lines creasing the older man's face deepened as he shuffled his hands out of his pockets to shake those of his daughter's friends.

"I remember…from the wedding," he said. "I…thank you. Grace would…she'd like me to say…that is, I know she…" He sighed. "I'm sorry." A thin hand wove its way over the day's stubble.

Cho stepped closer. "How's she doing?"

"Still pretty out of it. Sleeps most of the time—painkillers they've got her on. She's got her…her arm in a cast. Got her on oxygen. But they say her stats are good, so that's good, I suppose." His eyes had become fixed on the underside of a green leaf hanging inches above his head. "My wife…it's always been her in that bed. And I guess it's just hard for her, you know…" Clearing his throat lightly, he brought himself back to the moment and met Lisbon's concerned gaze. "I'm sorry," he said, shifting his hat and replacing it over thinning grey hair. "You've all been sitting on a plane all day and I'm just standing here. I'm sure you want to get to the hotel."

"Actually, would it…can you take us to the hospital?"

Something odd sparked in his eyes as he registered Lisbon's request—grief and a hint of warmth.

"Of course."

* * *

2012

Saturday, August 11

4:20 pm

_"Agent Lisbon?"_

_ "Yes?"_

_ The young officer looked uncomfortable in his current position as liaison between his CO and the head of a prestigious team from the CBI . "Does your team know the situation here?"_

_ Raising an eyebrow, Lisbon replied, "Officer Calvin, I can assure you we are perfectly capable of handling whatever it is your boss is worried about. I'll—"_

_ "No, Agent Lisbon—ma'am. I am sure your team is very capable. I just…You know we were asked to call you in?"_

_ "The CBI?"_

_ "No, I mean your team specifically." Calvin nodded toward the hospital's glass doors—all but obscured by emergency and media personnel. In the center of the swarming mass stood Cho and Rigsby, who appeared to be negotiating with a set of black-suited gentlemen. _

_ Lisbon eyed the young man. "Why?"_

_ "Well, I don't know all of the details, but the man that was killed—Dr. Jeremy Becker—was in some way associated with a case your team had been running down a while back. Something to do with a group called…Vitalize?" A flush crept up Calvin's neck as he fumbled with his notepad for the forgotten name._

_ "Visualize?" Lisbon slowed her pace, an edge in her voice. _

_ "Yes, ma'am," Calvin said over a page of untidy notes._

_ Lisbon caught the officer's eye sharply. "Do _you_ know the situation here?"_

_ "Only that the Visualize case was yours, ma'am. And that that gentleman asked us to call you in."_

_ Lisbon followed the young man's pointed finger back to the hospital's entrance. In the corner, under red lettering proclaiming "Emergency," stood a man speaking into a reporter's microphone. His tailored suit and manicured hair distinguished him from the government-issue crowd and Lisbon had a sinking feeling she knew what he was._

_ "Lawyer?" she asked._

_ "Yes, ma'am. Ribb Carlisle. Dr. Becker was his client. They had a meeting this afternoon and Becker never showed. Carlisle came here to check on him and found Becker dead in his office."_

_ Flipping through the file, Lisbon hesitated. "What does this have to do with Visualize?"_

_ Calvin frowned. "Well, Becker was a member. And Carlisle said you would know how to handle it. Said you'd dealt with them before. I don't know why they need dealing with, but Carlisle seemed pretty riled."_

_ Lisbon sighed. "Call your boss. Tell him to get down here. Bring a projector."_

_ They had gotten the call a little over a year ago. A brutal killing of a young woman in Sausalito. Strangely, leads in the case were numerous and fruitful, eventually converging on a man named David Townsend. An open-and-shut, in every way: DNA, fingerprints, phone records, financials, all pointing to this one man. But, as Jane had continually interjected from his space on the couch, something felt "off." At first Lisbon wondered if she had been working with Jane for too long and had begun searching for the secret inside of a secret inside of a secret that would complicate a case that was, in reality, as simple as it looked. But she felt it too, whatever "it" was. _

_An hour before Townsend's arraignment, a call came from the DA's office. It appeared that there had been an interruption in the chain of evidence and a key piece of paperwork was missing. David Townsend would walk._

_A grumble of displeasure issued from the crowd of local law enforcement officials who stood surrounding a dented blackboard. _

_Lisbon gripped a stubby piece of chalk between her fingers and continued to sketch the timeline of the case. She told them of the team's continued investigation into Townsend after it became obvious that his release had been orchestrated. She told them of a phone call to the county switchboard that led to a group called Visualize and their leader, Brett Stiles. She told them of the discovery that the young woman who was killed—Sofia Morrison—had worked as an intern for Visualize and was let go six months prior to her death. She told them of interviews with Stiles revealing little more than a man whose power and charismatic nonchalance were evidence of both his guilt and their inability to do anything about it._

_What she did not say was that Jane had interviewed Stiles too, in his usual fashion. That, instead of putting on a face of indignant innocence or righteous anger, Stiles had pushed right back with knowledge that should not have been in his possession—knowledge of Red John and his dealings. That Jane's chiseled smile did not reach his eyes. That he was looking at Stiles as a fox would a rabbit. That, before they could make a move, the rabbit disappeared into a hole of politics and bureaucracy and corporate smoke and mirrors. That Jane had probably not slept since._

* * *

2013

Monday, May 13

4:18 pm

Cho moved the glass of orange juice out of Rosie's reach for a third time.

"Why sleeping?" Rosie questioned once more, pointing a small finger at her mother over the hospital-issue bedside table.

This time, it was Rosie's grandfather who answered.

"She's just tired, pumpkin. She's taking a nap."

"Wakeup?"

The elder Van Pelt shook his head. "Not right now. Maybe tomorrow." He stepped closer to the upholstered chair where Rosie sat on Cho's lap. "Hey, let's give these nice people a break. What about we go see Grandma upstairs? Is that ok?"

The question was as much addressed to the team as it was to Rosie. Consent was given in the form of three nods and the little girl was carried out of the room. It felt as if a bit of air was carried out with her.

Jane shut the blinds.

* * *

2012

Monday, August 13

10:23 am

_The red-tinged iron of the bridge towers flashed through the window as Lisbon sped down the road. Jane stole a glance across the van. Yep. Definitely still angry._

_ He took a breath. "The important thing is that now we know Sofia Morrison called Becker before she died. The cases are connected. Maybe—"_

_ Lisbon's eyes flashed. "No, Jane. The important thing is that you just pissed off a lawyer. A very powerful lawyer."_

_ Jane waved his hand dismissively, leaning back into the passenger's seat. "Meh. He was taking too long. My way was faster."_

_ "And illegal."_

_ "But it —"_

_ "But nothing." Lisbon sighed sharply at the windshield, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Jane, I told you we were coming. I told you we had a warrant. I told you to wait to go in to the restaurant until we got there. Maybe I could understand if there were no other way. But we _had the warrant._ Why couldn't you just…dammit, Jane—you had to be right. You had to prove something. And now nothing is admissible. He could walk again. Do you know that?"_

_ Jane eyed her indignantly. "Would you calm down, woman? Everything's going to be fine."_

"_You don't know that. You do _not _know that."_

_He held up his hand in appeal. "Just trust me. It'll be fine."_

_ Lisbon's voice dropped an octave. "And do you trust _me_, Jane?"_

_ Jane was silent as the car rolled to a stop under a red light._

_ "Don't say you do."_

* * *

2013

Monday, May 13

10:46 pm

Steam clouded the wall-length mirror. In it, the hazy green of the shower curtain hung behind the darker streak of Lisbon's still-damp hair. The snarl of the hotel-grade hair dryer ground against her already frayed composure, but at least it masked the dull roar of the jets that flirted with the sound barrier only a few hundred yards away, ticking by five-minute intervals like an atomic clock.

A squeak sounded above the roar and Lisbon turned anxiously toward the plastic box that housed the dryer's electrical circuits, but saw nothing. The noise persisted and Lisbon realized in a haze of cluttered thoughts that it came from outside the bathroom door—more specifically, from the bedroom.

The dryer clattered against the tile as Lisbon struggled to disentangle herself from the nest of towels at her feet.

The little girl sat in front of the television, breath coming in high-pitched gasps as she cried.

"Hey Posey, what's wrong?" Lisbon scooped Rosie up and sat with her on the bed. Everything in the room seemed to close in on itself—the bed within two feet of the TV within two feet of the table within two feet of the door—like it was made to be folded up and packed away. The abstract flower print creaked under their weight. Lisbon smoothed Rosie's bangs from her forehead, but thin wisps still clung to her tear-streaked cheeks. The little grey lamb slipped out of her small hands and landed in a heap on the floor.

Rosie hiccupped. "The daddy died," she squeaked between jagged breaths that shook her whole body.

Lisbon let her attention be drawn to the television screen where a cartoon lion cub lay sprawled against a wide expanse of desert. Buzzards circled above him, ready to land on what they thought was a dead body. Her mind wandered to a summer day in a crowded movie theater, her ten-year-old brother clinging desperately to her hand across the bag of popcorn he had promised to share. She realized what Rosie must have seen and, for some reason, it scared her.

"The daddy died," Rosie said again.

"Shhh," Lisbon said, as much to comfort Rosie as to give herself time to drum up a speech about death mild enough to give to a toddler. It was funny, though. The only words coming immediately to mind were 'I'm sorry for your loss,' which, on a basic level, were entirely inappropriate for the situation. She wondered at how easily they rolled off her tongue, as if she were ordering a morning coffee rather than comforting a family. And she wondered if that's all it was to her any more, a routine. A routine of death that had become so numbingly regular that none of it really hit them anymore. She sighed. But then _things_ happen, and all of the sudden, death is so very real.

She wrapped her arms more tightly around Rosie's shoulders as the little girl rested her sticky cheek against her chest. "You know what, though, Posey?"

Rosie raised her eyes to Lisbon's.

"You know what?" Lisbon repeated, leaning down to retrieve the lamb. "The daddy died to save Simba. So that the other animals wouldn't hurt him. He was very brave."

Rosie gave a shuddering sigh as Lisbon pressed a kiss to her temple. "OK."

Lisbon let her eyes drift from the small fist wrapped around her shoulder strap to the white streaks of the city lights outside her window and wished her own fears—everything—would dissolve away as easily.

* * *

2012

Tuesday, August 14

2:53 pm

_"Sir?"_

_ "Lisbon?"_

_ "I just wanted to let you know Cho and Van Pelt are on their way to get Townsend." Hands in her pockets, Lisbon stepped resolutely in front of Minelli's desk. "He won't walk this time." _

_ "Despite Jane's efforts to allow him to do so."_

_ Lisbon grimaced. "Yes, sir. But I promise it won't—"_

_ "'—happen again.' Yes, Lisbon. I know."Minelli regarded her over the thin metal rims of his glasses, fingertips resting on a file. He sighed, a strange look coming over his face as he attempted to keep his stern demeanor from slipping into one of disgruntled amusement. "You were able to use the phone records?"_

"_Not exactly."Lisbon rocked back on her heels, avoiding Minelli's eyes. "Thanks to Jane, the records from the pay phone in the restaurant where Sofia Morrison worked are technically inadmissible...so we backtracked and tried to find another record of their connection. She used to serve him coffee almost every morning, so it was just a matter of getting enough witness statements. Considering the acquaintances they had in common, whatever she told him might have been the same thing that got him killed and probably by the same person—actually, it was Van Pelt who found the record of—"_

_ Minelli held up his hand. "You got the guy?"_

_ Lisbon nodded. "Yes."_

_ "That's all I need to know. Thank you, Agent Lisbon." He inclined his head. "Now get out of here before I change my mind and have Jane's ass outside juggling office supplies for department funding. God knows I could use the laugh—and the money."_

_ Lisbon suppressed the beginnings of a grin._

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

1:14 am

The clock winked another minute past. Lisbon's dazed mind couldn't seem to detach itself from the gentle whirring of the air conditioning unit or the rhythmic motion of the curtains as they swelled with the current. She watched, half-conscious, as the hems rippled out from the wall in gentle waves, lighter linen ghosting through a small partition in heavier drapes.

A quiet knocking startled her just enough to pull her fully awake. Slowly pushing back the sheets, she padded her way to the door, peered out, and opened it to reveal Jane—all rumpled vest and weary eyes—holding two steaming paper cups of tea and looking as tired as she had ever seen him.

Wordlessly, she let him slip past her into the still-dark room. The door closed behind them, the sliver of light from the hallway narrowing and finally disappearing altogether.

Jane lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, eyes drifting unconsciously across the wall and eventually coming to rest in the far corner where a small hand was just visible through the mesh of a portable crib.

He felt the pull of the mattress as Lisbon settled next to him. The tea sloshed a little against the sides of the cups, and he waited until the liquid had stilled to place one in her hands. He stared into the steaming cup, closing his eyes as he tried to memorize the sound of the quiet suspended between them because, for a reason he couldn't quite place, he felt safe in that moment.

The filtered moonlight traced the outline of Lisbon's face against the dark space, like a child's chalk drawings on the pavement. She looked ethereal, like an imprint of a dream on his mind seconds after waking; like something he could forget if he didn't choose to remember, like something that, while ever so real to him now, would disappear in the daylight.

The traffic outside sounded like an ocean.

* * *

2012

Tuesday, August 14

4:44 pm

_Jane leaned back against the worn leather headrest of his couch and sighed. The case was closed. They had gotten Townsend, despite his purported "pissing off" of Ribb Carlisle. Really, Lisbon had overreacted. So, perhaps his expediting of their access to Mick's Diner's phone records was slightly illegal. Ok, so more than slightly. But, the place needed a new security system anyway. And, in the end, it had all turned out in favor of Carlisle's former client. He really had nothing to be so cross about._

_Jane folded his hands across his vest. If it weren't for him and his suggestion that they look into that strange call to Becker's phone, they wouldn't have found a connection between Becker and Sofia. A connection that essentially cracked the case wide open and led them back to Visualize and Townsend. A victory lap, of sorts. This time, Townsend wouldn't walk. And, if it weren't for him they wouldn't have found Townsend's location and been on the way to pick him up right now. Then where would they be? Nowhere, that's where._

_ Crossing his arms petulantly, he concluded that Lisbon had indeed overreacted and made up his mind to tell her so. In fact there she was, coming down the hall._

_ He shifted to a sitting position and waited for her to enter the bullpen._

_ "Van Pelt?" Lisbon spoke into her phone. Jane decided he would be the bigger man and let her finish her conversation before accosting her. _

_ "Grace, slow down…shot who?...Ok. We'll be there as soon as possible." She hung up. "Dammit. Who_ are_ these people?"_

_ Jane, who stood up from his couch at the word "shot," forgot his resolution and strode over to Lisbon. "Everybody okay?"_

_ Lisbon matched his confused gaze. "They shot Townsend."_

_ "Who, Cho?"_

_ "No, no. They were at a light and someone shot through the window." She stepped toward her office. "PD's on the scene. Get Rigsby and meet me at the van."_

_ It took Jane a moment to remember where his feet were._

_ "You coming, Jane?"_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: As a reminder, Becker was the doctor whose death was investigated by the team last August. He was killed by David Townsend, the man also implicated in the death of Sofia Morrison, a waitress and former intern at Visualize. David Townsend was shot during the investigation of Becker's death. Visualize is somehow mixed up in it all.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Mentalist (or Ferris Bueller).**

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

8:09 am

Cho's coffee was getting cold.

"Well then get me your boss…You said you weren't authorized. So get me your boss…Do you want some Aleve?...ALEVE…I've heard it's good for joint pain…You will when I rip your arm out of its socket…"

Lisbon sent Cho a sidelong glance over Rosie's head. Jane almost smiled as he studiously mixed hot water into his hotel-grade instant oatmeal.

Cho slammed the phone down and spun on his heel to compose himself before turning to face them. "Noon. We can go."

Lisbon blinked. "To review the casefile."

He nodded. "To offer _insight._" His face pinched in frustration. "Damn!"

* * *

2012

Thursday, August 16

4:49 pm

_"He liked basketball," Van Pelt commented over a box full of David Townsend's belongings. "Signed jersey." She sighed. "Don't you guys find this a little weird?"_

_ Cho peered at the jersey. "No." _

_ "I mean, looking through his stuff." _

_ "Why? We do it all the time." Rigsby tossed an old newspaper clipping into the box with a pile of tax returns._

_ "Yes. But…he's so _normal_."_

_ "What were you expecting? Severed head in the refrigerator?"_

_ "No, of course not. But maybe something to indicate that the person living here was a hired murderer."_

_ Rigsby shrugged. "That's probably why Stiles chose him as his cleaner. It's the normal ones you've got to watch."_

_ "And nobody wants an obvious hit-man." Cho labeled another evidence box and slid it over to Rigsby._

_ Van Pelt paused. "I wonder why they killed him this time. They could have just gotten him off again like they did with the Morrison case."_

_ "Probably used all of his free passes. Maybe they were tired of bailing him out."_

_ Rigsby shuffled through another desk drawer. "Yeah, but it didn't seem like they cared if he got caught, just as long as he didn't end up in jail and could keep tying up their loose ends. And it's not like it takes a lot to get someone off on a technicality."_

_ "Or hire a sniper to kill them."_

_ "But then you have to hire someone to replace the person you killed." Van Pelt turned to Rigsby. "And, you're right. It almost seemed like they wanted us to catch him that first time with Sofia… Maybe that's how it worked: they get Townsend to kill whoever it was they wanted gone, then have it set up so there's no way he couldn't have done it, then, after the case is closed, get him off. The investigation's already over, no more digging. They give us the answer so we don't go looking for it where they don't want us."_

_ Cho nodded. "Could be." _

"_It's your week to make Jane tea, right?"Rigsby commented, studying a pack of pens before shoving them back into the drawer. _

"_Yes. Why?"_

_Rigsby grinned. "He's rubbing off on you. Pretty soon you'll be insulting the DA and accusing Cho of having an affair with Minelli."_

"_And getting punched in the nose," Cho added, brushing by with an evidence box._

"_Do you want us to get you a couch?"_

_Taking the next box, Van Pelt silently followed Cho, biting her lip to keep from smirking._

"_Cloth or leather? Grace?... Anyone? Bueller?"_

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

12:02 pm

There was a crack in the window.

"You can see here," Detective Alexander Gorman gestured to the computer where a grainy surveillance tape stumbled across the screen. "Mr. Wayne Rigsby enters the 7th floor of the Norton Research Wing via the south elevator at 6:41 pm on Saturday May the 11th."

It spun out in delicate lines across the pane, like the silk of a spider's web.

"At 6:42 he enters the office of a Dr. George Romero, oncologist. The father-in-law, a Mr. Amos Van Pelt, informed a uniform that Mr. Rigsby was dropping off insurance forms for a Mrs. Joanna Van Pelt, who was participating in a drug trial run by Dr. Romero."

Lisbon reached out a hand, absently, to trace the shimmering streaks. The glass was cold against her fingertips.

"At 6:47, Mr. Rigsby exits the office and continues down the hall before stopping outside another office, waiting 37 seconds, and entering. This second office belonged to a Dr. Edgar Flanders, a senior member of the psychiatry department. We were unable to determine Mr. Rigsby's reasoning for entering the office."

Having brothers, she had encountered many a cracked windowpane in her lifetime. A baseball, a tin can, James' pet rock…yet, unlike the impressions left by those projectiles, this particular fissure seemed to have no point of origin, no obvious beginning, and no delineation of its end.

"At 6:51 pm Mrs. Grace Rigsby enters the 7th floor via the south elevator. A message left on her father's phone at that time confirms plans for dinner at seven o'clock that evening and her intent to enter the building to see why her husband had not yet returned to their vehicle. At 6:52:03, Mrs. Rigsby can be seen entering the hallway housing the offices of Drs. Romero and Flanders."

Gorman glanced back at them before pausing the tape. "The rest is—"

"Play it."

The sergeant observed Cho, whose own eyes were fixed stonily on the screen. "Are you sure—"

"Just do it."

Just a tangled net of paper-thin wires brushing out a haphazard pattern beneath her hand.

The screen turned a brilliant white, blazing in the dimly-lit room like the muzzle flash of a handgun at night. It leaves spots in her eyes, even as she willed them to remain fixed on the broken glass. They disobey.

Gorman continued. "At 6:52:24 an explosion originates from the front office of Dr. Edgar Flanders. At 6:53:07 smoke obscures the cameras' view of the hallway. Paramedics arrive 6:55. Cameras back 6:56:22. Tape ends 6:59:37 pm."

Silence fell heavily as they watched grayscale flames and the hazy outline of a fireman's helmet, only barely visible against a backdrop of smoke and the shadows of fragmented furniture.

"I am sorry for your loss."After allowing them a moment, Gorman switched on the lights, returned to his desk, and flipped open a manila folder. "Now, the tapes give us no reason to believe that Mr. Rigsby left Dr. Flanders' office before the blast. The forensics guys tell me the DNA should be back by tomorrow. That said, is there anything you can tell me about him that would help in identifying his remains? Anything he kept with him, a wedding ring, maybe, that would have been—"

"Flanders was his advisor."

He said it like he was proclaiming the discovery of a new world. Lisbon, still struggling with the dense air, tore her eyes from the screen to stare at Jane.

"Edgar Flanders was Becker's research advisor."

* * *

2013

Wednesday, May 8

3:32 pm

_Rigsby walked purposefully toward Lisbon's office._

_ "Need something, Rigsby?" _

_Lisbon's voice came from behind him, and he spun to face her._

"_Boss? Grace and I were wondering…well, her mom got into that research trial and Grace wants to go and see her before it starts."_

"_When do you need to leave?"_

"_This Friday. But Boss, the problem is that with everything going on…we're going to be at the hospital most of the weekend and Grace doesn't want her dad to have to chase after Rosie on top of everything else and…well, our babysitter Francine's brother's getting married Saturday and Elise is back from New York so Grace didn't want to ask Cho and…we were wondering, would you take her?"_

_Lisbon blinked. "Me?"_

_Rigsby cleared his throat. "I mean, it's fine if you don't want to, but we just thought—"_

_Shaking her head, Lisbon interjected. "No, of course I'll take her. I just…wasn't expecting that, was all."_

"_Yeah, sorry about the short notice, but we just needed to know so we could arrange things for the weekend."_

_Lisbon nodded._

"_And we'll pay you, of course."_

"_That's not necessary."_

"_Are you sure?"_

"_Rigsby, I don't need you_ _paying me_ _so you can go visit family."_

_He eyed her apprehensively. "Boss, I think—"_

"_Rigsby, I don't know if you missed it, but there's this thing called _I am your boss._ It means you have to do what I say. And if I say you're not paying me, you're not. Got it?" She raised an eyebrow at him._

_Rigsby grinned reluctantly. "Got it, Boss."_

"_Ok. Good."Lisbon continued past him into her office, where she let herself smile at the retreating back of a most relieved Rigsby._

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

12:14 pm

Jane paced in front of the screen still frozen in a colorless blaze. "That Becker case. Last August. Becker studied abnormal psychology for his doctorate. Dr. Edgar Flanders was his major advisor."

"Jane, I—"

"No, don't you see? That's why Rigsby went into that office. He remembered the name."

Jane scuffled over to Gorman's desk and all but snatched the casefile from the detective's hands. "Did you even look into this?" He glared at Gorman's startled expression.

"Jane."

He whirled on Lisbon. "I think he should."

"Jane…" Lisbon placed a tentative hand on Jane's sleeve. "He's dead," she whispered, mind questioning even as she spoke the words. "Rigsby's dead."

A cool flame sparked in Jane's eyes as he removed his arm from her touch. "Ah. Yes… closure. How nice for you, dear Lisbon. I'd appreciate a little more time, myself, if you don't mind."

As Jane watched, the little part of Lisbon that had grown familiar to him in the past years withdrew in on itself, leaving a wave of emptiness in her eyes that would have seemed like a cool glare, had it not been for the small intake of breath that came with it. He forced himself to hold her gaze, unrelenting, until she finally turned away. Maybe it was better this way. He didn't know what more he would have to do to get to the truth.

"I would like to see the crime scene now."

* * *

2013

Friday May 10

4:48 pm

_ Lisbon sat on the cool linoleum in her small kitchen wishing she could remember where she had put the adhesive for the last baby lock. She had only set it down for a second while she cleaned the cabinet door and now it was nowhere to be found. Glancing up at the clock, she realized they were supposed to come almost twenty minutes ago and settled for tying the cabinet shut with some kitchen twine. As she was replacing the spool in a drawer, the doorbell rang._

_ "Hi. Sorry we're late. The printer broke when we were printing the boarding passes and Rosie spilled juice all over her dress." Van Pelt stepped past Lisbon into the apartment, Rosie on one hip, backpack balanced on the other. Rigsby followed, laden with a diaper bag and some sort of rectangular case._

_ "Hi yourself," Lisbon said, somewhat taken aback by the sheer amount of equipment they were expecting her to use over the next two days. "You need to use my printer?"_

_ Van Pelt shook her head. "No. It was just out of ink. Thanks, though." She let a relieved grin slip across her face. "And thanks so much for doing this. I really—it really means a lot."_

_ Lisbon returned the smile. "I think we can handle a couple of days to ourselves. Right Rosie?"_

_ The little girl nodded vaguely, fingers in her mouth, still unsure of the situation._

_ "Ok. Is there anything I should know?" Lisbon asked, gesturing for Rigsby to hand her the diaper bag._

_ "Well, she's already had her bath, so that's done. She'll eat pretty much anything except spinach and cauliflower. Just make sure to cut it up small enough. She can use a fork—"_

_ "We packed some of her dishes," Van Pelt cut in. "Oh, and there are Cheerios and Goldfish in little plastic bags for snack. Just make sure she doesn't dump them on the floor and then eat them afterwards."_

_ "Oh, and carrots." Rigsby frowned. "She doesn't really like carrots."_

_ Lisbon nodded, trying to keep a straight face._

_ "She takes her nap at two. After that she likes to watch Mr. Rodgers. It's still on PBS. Channel—Oh, Wayne. Show her the crib."_

_ "Right." Rigsby set down the rectangular case. "Porta-crib. Pretty easy. All you do is unfold it."_

_ "Just make sure you remember to put the mattress in the bottom."_

_ Lisbon wrestled unsuccessfully with a smirk. "No. I wouldn't want to forget that."_

_Van Pelt continued. "Oh. And she likes a story before bed. She can tell you which one she wants. We packed a couple in her backpack. Just don't let her bring them in the bathtub. Or—"_

_ Lisbon looked at the clock. "Grace. I think I can handle it. Don't you need to get to the airport?"_

_ Van Pelt checked her watch. "Oh, you're right," she acknowledged, though she made no move to leave. Her eyes traced the metal bookshelves holding Lisbon's CD collection, then the couch, and finally the luggage on the living room floor before coming to rest on the top of Rosie's head._

_ Meeting her gaze gently, Lisbon stepped forward. "We'll be fine. I promise."_

_ Van Pelt cringed. "I know. It's just…I worry too much, I guess."_

_ Rigsby coughed._

_ After shooting a playful glare at her husband, Van Pelt addressed her daughter. "Alright, missy. You be really good for Lissa, ok?"_

_ She received a solemn nod._

_ "Ok. Now give Daddy a hug."_

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

1:09 pm

Even after three days, the singed smell of smoke still hung heavily in the air. Jane stepped carefully under the crime scene tape that separated the hallway into its two personalities: the pristine white and the blackened inferno. He forced himself to look into the inferno.

"You ok, Mr. Jane?" a young man called over his shoulder. _Marquez, Arson Specialist_ was embroidered across one side of his jumpsuit.

Jane nodded.

"Yeah, that's where the woman was. EMS said smoke inhalation, but she'd have had a good knock on the head too… Ok, so we're stepping across where the office wall used to be." Marquez gestured to a pile of rubble at his feet. "And there's where the blast originated. The bomb was wired to the drawer of a filing cabinet. Whoever did this really didn't want their tarot cards read. One pull on that handle and everything…the cabinet, papers, furniture, this old trophy thing…basically shredded."

They picked their way to where the back corner of the room used to be. For now, there was a blue tarp hanging to mark the separation between the front room of Flanders' office and the adjoining private conference room.

"Alright. So the Doc was probably about here, filing some paper." Marquez stood a few feet from the tarp. "And your guy was maybe five feet behind him, closer to the door here. But that didn't really matter once this thing detonated. Generated its own shrapnel. Like I said, _everything_ shredded… Sorry, man."

Jane waved him on.

"Just about the only thing not really touched by the blast was that old closet over there. Metal door." Marquez maneuvered his way across the room and grinned as he opened the closet to reveal several expensive-looking suit jackets—a little sooty, but otherwise in relatively good condition. "Saved his Armani coats…not that he'll be needing them."

Jane stepped closer to the closet. "Hypothetically, a person in here could have survived the bomb?"

Marquez shrugged. "Hypothetically…I guess. A little deaf and banged up, but…sure, I guess, _hypothetically_ they would be ok. But…look, my buddy's the ME. There were two bodies in here. Not that I could tell, of course, with all the….But if Danny says there were two bodies, there were two bodies. I'm sorry, man. Your friend's dead."

Jane grinned mechanically. "That's what they're telling me."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you all for reviewing. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Mentalist.**

* * *

2013

Saturday, May 11

6:30 pm

_"Lissa, Lissa, Lissa."_

_ "What, Rosie, Rosie, Rosie?"_

_ Rosie responded by banging out another stumbling rhythm on the long-suffering backs of Lisbon's pans._

_ "Im playing."_

_ "Yes, you are." After giving Rosie a wan smile, Lisbon returned her tired eyes to the ground beef sizzling in her frying pan. _

_The little girl had cried for most of the night before finally settling down only hours before dawn. By the time she awoke late that morning, she had miraculously seemed to reconcile herself to her situation and decided to behave. Unfortunately, Lisbon had not had Rosie's luxury of taking a nap that afternoon and so, instead of feeling refreshed, felt as though she could fall asleep right at the hot stove had it not been, well, a hot stove._

_ "Lissa?"_

_ "Yep?"_

_ "What we eating dinner?"_

_ Lisbon turned to the baseball cap that covered most of Rosie's face. It had belonged to one of her brothers—Tommy, probably—and once Rosie found it on her ventures through Lisbon's closet, she refused to take it off. _

"_We're having spaghetti, remember?" she said, kneeling down to Rosie's level and readjusting the cap so that, at least, she could see the child's face._

_ "Psapgeti?"_

_ In spite of herself, Lisbon grinned. "Noodles. We're having noodles."_

_ "Oh. Ok," Rosie conceded breathily before continuing her banging._

_ The stove timer read eleven more minutes. She wasn't sure she could handle eleven more minutes of Rosie's "playing." Then she remembered Van Pelt's bag of books._

_ "Hey, Posey? What if we read a book?"_

_ "Abook?"_

_ "Yes," Lisbon replied before scooping Rosie up, removing a wooden spoon from her grip, and placing it on the counter next to a bubbling pan of red sauce. "You can pick one out."_

_ "Ok."_

_ The backpack was just about overflowing with board books and coloring paper and crayons. Rosie dumped the entirety of it on the living room floor and proceeded to search through the rubble. "This one."_

_ "_The Jungle_? Sounds good to me."_

_ They sat together on the couch as Lisbon read:_

_ "'In a faraway land called Sasafrassand, there was a jungle as big as the sea. This magical place held every race of animal, from mouse to monkey to me.'"_

_ "And me."_

_ "And you," Lisbon agreed, continuing. "'Come and meet them, if you can. Come and meet them in Sasafrassand. There's the deer and the lion, the bear and the bird, the donkey, the rhino, and an elephant herd._

_ "'Wait, we're not done! Stay for more fun! I spot a leopard, a lemur, a lamb—'" _

"_Lammy!" Rosie pointed to the tattered pile of felted fleece lying across the room._

"_You're right. Just like Lammy." Lisbon flipped the page. "'…A frog, a squirrel, an orangutan._

_ "'And can you see who's hiding by the tree, just waiting to play with you and with me?...'"_

_ Rosie pointed to the page. "Tiger."_

_ Lisbon nodded. "'Yes. It's a tiger, with stripes on his face, the ruler of this magical place._

_ "'Now our time is up, we've reached the end. But come again, my little friend.'"_

_ The timer rang._

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

1:52 pm

"Agent Van Pelt's desk, Jess Bailey speaking."

"Bailey?"

"Jane? Is that you? What—How is she? Is everything—"

"Bailey, I need you to go to evidence and pull the boxes on Sofia Morrison, Dr. Jeremy Becker and David Townsend. Morrison was 2011. Becker and Townsend were last year."

"Um, ok. Did Agent Lisbon—"

"Of course she did. Are you going to get the boxes or not?"

"Uh…right now?"

"Yes, Bailey. Right now. Call me back when you get them."

The click of his cell phone went off like a gunshot in the darkened basement of the research facility. Jane leaned back against an exposed pipe and felt the current of heat moving under its metal casing. His hands burned. His eyes closed.

* * *

2013

Saturday, May 11

6:46 pm

_ Rigsby glanced at his watch, nodding vacantly at Dr. Romero's retelling of a childhood incident that he supposed would normally function to set patients at ease. It was, however, doing nothing for his need to get back to the car before Grace decided to leave for dinner without him._

_ "…and so, you know I never did that again. Especially after Mamá made me scrub the entire thing with a toothbrush."_

_ "Hmm. Sorry to hear about that," Rigsby breathed, trying to indicate his desire to leave by glancing sideways at the door in what he hoped was a subtle fashion._

_ "Oh, I was mad as a hornet. But how else do young boys learn?" Dr. Romero shrugged. "Well, Mr. Rigsby, it was a pleasure to meet you. And you tell your mother-in-law she has nothing to worry about. We'll get these filed and then we'll see her bright and early Monday morning." He waved the insurance forms in a salute as Rigsby said his goodbyes and gratefully headed out the door._

_ He checked his watch again. It wasn't too bad. They could still make it by seven. Now, if he could only remember how to get out of this maze and back to the elevator. He walked the long hallway searching for a directory, but the only writing on the blank white walls was the bold print of the name plaques posted outside every office. _

_ Pausing next to an open door and debating whether to enter and ask for directions, Rigsby realized he knew the occupant's name from somewhere. _Dr. Edgar Flanders, Head of Research: Abnormal/Criminal Psychology_ read the name plate. Yes, he had definitely heard that name before. It was going to bother him. And he was going to be late otherwise, so why not just go in and ask for directions? Maybe this Dr. Flanders would recognize him. Two birds. One stone._

_ He was about to knock when he heard voices. Apparently Dr. Flanders was in a meeting. Oh, well. Next door—_

_ "…yes, I know we agreed, Edgar. But we also agreed about going too far, and not to do it."_

_ "Too far? Stiles, if you're going to pull out your humanitarian side, I would like to remind you, my good friend, that it was you who first agreed to let me study the boy."_

_ Rigsby froze. Stiles. Flanders. That Becker case. Of course. Dr. Edgar Flanders was Becker's mentor. During the investigation, he himself had contacted Flanders about Becker's regular calls to the doctor's cell phone. Turned out to be nothing important. Just something about a research project._

_Stiles. That couldn't be Brett Stiles? They hadn't heard from him in months. Stiles knew Flanders?_

"_Yes, well I never imagined you—or he, for that matter—would go to such lengths for your work, my very good friend," Stiles' voice countered._

_Rigsby peered through the crack between the door and its frame. The office appeared to be empty. He pushed the door open further. No one was sitting at the polished oak desk, but he could see another doorway in the back corner of the office and, through it, part of a chair and table—a conference room of some sort. Stiles and Flanders must be in there._

"_Oh, spare me the sermon, if you please," Flanders snapped. "And you're one to talk, after the measures you took to keep him from me—to protect him. Or were you protecting yourself?"Flanders' hollow laugh reverberated into the empty hallway. "We both know he's smarter than any of us."_

"_Precisely. Tell me, Edgar, have you thought of what he might do if he were to find out about your little project?"_

_Silence. After scanning the hallway for observers, Rigsby stepped carefully into the vacant office._

_Stiles continued berating his companion. "Or is that part of your plan? To study his reaction to the inevitable discovery that you, my excellent friend, have been dogging his every step since he was five years old?" A chair squeaked as Stiles stood abruptly. "Planning on finding all the golden bits of knowledge in his artful dissection of your dead body? Or mine? Or that little girl's?"_

_More silence._

"_Yes, that's right. I know you were watching her. Too perfect to pass up. A juicy little cutlet of the imagery you both worship—Tyger and the Lamb, as your beloved poet would say."_

_Flanders' voice was cold. "His poet. Not mine."_

"_No, but you would think so to look at you—the way both of your lives revolve around his trite symbolism. Now, had Becker been tracking her for long, or did you have her name down in that little black book of yours before she was born?...No, of course not. How could you have known what it would be? And how flawlessly it fit into your little puzzle. Are you waiting for her to die so you can publish? It would undoubtedly make a fitting final chapter—so rife with conclusion and 'fearful symmetry.'"_

_A pause. Then, "What's it to you, Stiles? What the devil is any of this to you, with your 'greater good' and your endless, useless proselytizing…" A sneer crept into Flanders' voice. "If you must know, before you murdered him, Becker was tracking many things for me. It was the young Ms. Morrison, whose untimely demise you also orchestrated, that first informed our dear Becker of the ties between your Visualize and my study—or didn't you know?"_

_It was Stiles' turn to remain silent._

"_Yes," Flanders persisted gleefully. "It was your intern who led Becker out of his purgatory of sniveling patients and back to me. You killed her for her prying, but what you had hoped to prevent, she had already done. Her death only assured Becker of his mission—and it had become one—to aid me in one of the most important studies of human behavior ever conducted. So, in your insistence on closing the door in my face, you threw it open wide. And I thank you for it."_

_Stiles sighed loudly enough for Rigsby to hear from his position, rooted to the spot across from Flanders' desk. "Oh, Edgar. Everything is a game to you, isn't it? What a very great pity you cannot win. Just tell me one more thing: how many more of them are you going to let die before you stop him? Or can you stop him? With all of the abundant ways you have explored the inner workings of this man, do you know him at all? Or does he, despite your crazed obsession with his mind, still manage to outwit you?"_

"_My dear Stiles. I'll have you know that, with the exception of that idiot Renfrew and his call-girl in Mexico, I have foreseen every one of his killings. Every one. Would you care to see my register?"_

_Footsteps. Rigsby, after a few frozen seconds, ducked into a nearby closet and closed the door only moments before Flanders' voice announced his and Stiles' arrival in the front room of the office. _

_Rigsby had been hanging on every word that passed between the two men, listening so intently he was sure he could hear the rustling of their garments as they moved. He could venture a guess as to the subject of their conversation, but was almost afraid to let himself complete that train of thought. _

_Flanders continued, "It resides in what you incorrectly referred to as my 'little black book.' And you profess to know of my so-called obsession with symbolism. If you did, you would have guessed…my book is Red."_

_Rigsby's heart beat tinnily in his ears and for a second it was all he could do to keep his mind from derailing as he attempted to piece together a course of action. _

"_How eloquently appropriate," he heard Stiles sneer. "Do please inform me: which one of us will be the next victim of your fixation?"_

_Then his heart stopped altogether at the mentioning of their names. Every one of their names. Out of order, out of context, embellished by some sort of analysis that didn't matter because all he could hear were the words next victim…little girl…watching her…fearful symmetry…and the echo of their names. The pieces fell together._

_When the heartbeat returned it was deafening, a tidal wave inside his head that wiped out every coherent thought save for those attached to the primal actions of breathing and preparing to kill._

_He almost didn't hear the metallic creak of a drawer being opened and the rush of air that immediately followed before an invisible hand shoved him violently backward and things fell apart._

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

2:05 pm

"Ok, Jane. I've got the boxes."

"Good. Now open Becker's box and read me the contents list."

"Um…ok. Here it is. One stapler, twelve mechanical pencils, one butane lighter, one spiral-bound notebook—"

"Take out the notebook. Keep reading."

"Two framed photos, one coffee mug, fifteen cassette tapes—"

"Take the tapes out. Are they research notes?"

"Hang on…No. It looks like just music."

"Read the titles to me."

"…Johnny Cash, Barry Manilow, John Denver, Sting, Rod Stewart, Morrison—"

"Jim Morrison?"

"No…It just says Morrison. Handwritten. Must be a mix-tape or something."

"Send me a copy of that. Now."

"Um. Ok. I'll have to take it down to tech. It might take a few hours."

"Fine. Is there anything else in there that references Morrison?"

"No. That was the only one."

"What about Edgar Flanders?"

"No. Nothing…Wait. There's an E.M. Flanders listed on the cover of this magazine. _Marvels of Modern Psychology._ Could that be it?"

"Possibly."

"I could send you the link. It's also published online. You have a computer?"

"No, but I can find one."

* * *

2013

Saturday, May 11

6:54 pm

_ Rigsby was choking. Choking on air. Every breath scorched the inside of his chest, but he couldn't stop, not when the distant buzzing behind his eyes told him there was no oxygen in the room. He needed to move. Now. _

_ Propping himself up on his elbows, he raised his spinning head from the carpeted floor of the closet and felt for the door. The metal burned his hands. Fire. Smoke. It stung his eyes as he stumbled out of the enclosed space and into a world turned upside down. Everything glowed orange. The office was unrecognizable. He felt a strange sense of nauseating vertigo as he ran into wall after wall of blinding smoke. It was oddly silent. But a loud silence that came in flashes. _

_ There was a dark shadow of movement to his right, and a white light blinking over the orange. Fire alarm, he thought. Follow the light. He stepped toward the movement and was swept into a sea of rough garments pulling him to what he hoped was air and space. Someone's hand brushed against his side as the tide carried them both through the panicked stream of people escaping the burning building._

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

2:41 pm

Jane deftly slipped the card into the lock. It had been easy enough to convince the teenaged desk clerk that Lisbon's copy had gone missing, and could she please make him another.

A solid click told him that, although the young clerk did not know much about protecting guests' privacy, she was otherwise capable of performing her duties. The door swung open and he was greeted with the gust of Pine Sol that seemed to be the trademark scent of hotel rooms. It had dissipated a little since their arrival last night, but still remained in a high enough concentration to remind them that this place was foreign.

He made his way into the room, eyes darting around in search of his prize. He spotted it nestled between the pillows of an overstuffed chair. Lisbon's computer case.

Tucking it under his arm, he made his way to the door, closed it gently behind him, and strode down the hallway, ignoring the thoughts buzzing in the back of his mind. Though he had taken Lisbon's things before, he no longer had that sort of half-permission that came with actually being on speaking terms with her. But some things had to be done. And if no one else would do them, he certainly would. He had to.

* * *

2013

Saturday, May 11

8:15 pm

_Lisbon could barely keep her eyes open as she filled the sink with water. Spaghetti may not have been the best idea; Rosie had ended up with more sauce in her lap than in her mouth. But, after a good bath, the little girl was clean once more and happily entertaining herself on Lisbon's kitchen floor with a ring of measuring spoons, a plastic cup, and Lammy, who appeared to be the guest of honor at an imaginary restaurant. _

_ Unlike the child, the dishes were still in need of washing and despite how good bed looked right now, Lisbon knew she would not get around to doing them in the morning. So, she dispensed what was probably a disproportionate amount of soap into the sink and began to scrub._

_ The phone rang._

_ Discarding the sponge and retrieving the dirty saucepan from the stove, Lisbon made her way across the kitchen to answer it. _

_ "Lisbon."_

_ "Is this Teresa Lisbon?"_

_ "Yes. Who is this?"_

_ "This is Officer Don Abram of Des Moines PD. I was asked to contact you by an Amos Van Pelt whose daughter and son-in-law were involved in an accident earlier this evening…"_

_ She must have left the stove on. The room was getting hotter. Cloudy. Slow. Like she was trying to breathe inside a pressure cooker. Why were words not making sense? Dead? She tried listening harder, but there was a ringing in her ears that only got louder as she tried to hear over the lump in her throat. She could see through the space between her heartbeats. Nothing made sense anymore. The voice was fading away behind a muggy cloud of water in her ears._

_ Then, an explosion of sound and heat that jerked her out of her space, floating in nothingness. She blinked down at her shirt. Had someone shot her? She reached her hand to the red spatter across her chest. Not blood. Red sauce. She had dropped the saucepan. She had dropped the saucepan._

_ Rosie was screaming. _

_ And then there was only action. She was reaching down and lifting Rosie from the floor, holding her to her chest as she continued to scream. She was leaning back against the counter, sliding down, and coming to rest on the cool tile. She was finding her voice and whispering to Rosie again and again that they would be fine. She was listening to the phone asking her if she was there and deciding she wasn't._

_ She sat back against the cupboard door, arms wrapped tightly around Rosie, the image of the red stain smeared across their chests swimming in her eyes as she struggled to expand her lungs._

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

2:53 pm

_Marvels of Modern Psychology,_ while having its beginnings as a reputable scientific publication, made its name within the psychiatric community by publishing what were essentially puff pieces on the community's celebrities. Among these was Dr. Edgar Flanders, whose research in abnormal and criminal psychology afforded him considerable prestige and recognition, including a four-page cover story in the February 2012 edition of _Marvels_.

"A_rguably one of the most influential criminal psychologists of the modern era,_" _Marvels' _young journalist gushed, "_Dr. Edgar Flanders has been conducting and publishing landmark studies throughout his considerable tenure. Perhaps most notable, however, is a work-in-progress that began in the infancy of his 52-year career, but as yet remains unpublished. A case-study following a budding sociopath through his formative years and into a life as a kind of self-professed criminal artist, this remarkable piece of research, though incomplete, has captured the interest of several national and international organizations, including FBI criminologists. There is speculation among close colleagues that, once published, the study may bring the illustrious Dr. Flanders the one recognition he has yet to win: the ever-coveted Nobel Prize. A former student, Dr. Jeremy Becker of Mercy General Hospital in Sacramento, California_—"

Jane stopped reading when a vibration in his pocket reminded him to breathe.

"What?"

"Jane? It's Jack Seymour. Bailey's still down with tech converting that tape you wanted. I just wanted to let you know…I think I found something."

"What?" Jane repeated, though with more urgency.

"Well, it might not mean anything, but I was going through those boxes Bailey brought up and…again, it might be nothing, but…both David Townsend and Jeremy Becker had a copy of this old newspaper article. Something about a kid surviving a fire back in 1964. Nothing really important, but I just thought, it's kind of a strange thing for the both of them to be holding on to. You want me to scan you a copy?"

"Yes. Now, if you can."

"Sure. Oh and hang on one second…Ok. Bailey wants you to know they're done with the conversion and she'll be sending you the audio files…now."

* * *

2013

Sunday, May 12

7:08 am

"_Des Moines PD is heading up the case. Right now it looks like the explosion was intentional. The bomb was wired to the drawer of filing cabinet. They still don't know why Rigsb—why he was in there."_

_Lisbon balanced Rosie on her hip as she spun absently through her kitchen, trying to remember where she kept her cups. _

_The two men sitting at her small round table were silent. _

_She whirled around. "I'm going." Cho looked up. "I'm going to Des Moines." She said it again, as if daring either of them to stop her. "I don't want Grace waking up without Rosie there." Turning back to the counter, she was glad for the weight of the child in her arms. It kept her from floating away._

_Something brushed against her hand. She looked down to see Jane gently removing a carton of orange juice from her grip. Absently, she had filled the cup to overflowing; juice was spilling in rivulets down the glass and pooling onto the counter. They watched together as the puddle grew. In the cool morning sun, everything faded together in washed-out shades of white, like a Polaroid slowly developing, a blurred picture beginning to form behind a curtain of smoke. _

_A chair creaked as Cho stood to join them. _

"_We're going with you."_

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

2:56

According to the _Des Moines Charger, _Shelby Solomon was five years old when he survived the house fire that killed both of his parents. Jane read through the article, unassumingly titled "Young Boy Survives Deadly Fire," four times before resigning himself to the fact that, although it was almost definitely significant in that both Townsend and Becker had a copy in their possession, he could not see anything noteworthy in the contents. Tragic, yes. But not immediately relevant to his investigation at this point.

He then began the tedious task of downloading and organizing the set of audio files Bailey converted from the Morrison tape. After a moment of confusion, he realized they were broken down into fifteen-minute segments and each attached to a separate e-mail. Jane sighed. Bailey may be filling in for the other agent, but a Van Pelt she was not. He tried not to think about how Van Pelt was not necessarily herself either, and instead focused on the first file, which had begun playing.

_"Speak into the microphone, sonny… No… Oh, well I guess that works, too…Alright, I'll be just outside. Remember, you can say anything you like."_

_ Rustling, then a child's voice. "Hello. It is August the fourteenth, 1964. I am making my first tape. I am supposed to tell about all of the things that are bad that I have done this week. But first, I want to tell you about my aunt Ruby. She has brown hair. She has blue eyes, like mama did. She does not like pancakes, but she made me some anyway when I told her to. She used to have a cat but it died."_

_ A sigh blew into the speakers. "They said I was bad this week because I used matches to put fire on the flag outside. They told me not to. I don't care. I wanted to make a picture, so I used the matches. They don't understand. They didn't see it. But I did. And I remember it like the fire in the kitchen. Except I made it, not Daddy. And I was not angry. I made it and it was pretty. It was beautiful. It was like lemons and sugar. It was pretty and scary at the same time."_

Jane reached for the article. Brett Stiles knew too much. He had always known too much.

* * *

2013

Sunday, May 12

9:15 am

_ "The flight leaves tomorrow morning at 7:30. Layover in Denver then to Des Moines."_

_ Lisbon nodded. _

_ "Minelli arranged for Bailey and Seymour to fill in." Cho glanced at a Post-it note. "Ron and Julian from cold case will be on call if they get a case. Everything's set."_

_ Thank God for Cho. She knew this had to be hitting him hard, but he was barely showing it. Over the past two hours, he had made at least a half-dozen phone calls to Minelli, the CBI office, the airport, and the Des Moines PD to arrange for their leave of absence._

_ She managed a small smile for him, which he returned, handing her a glass of water and taking Rosie from her arms. _

_Jane hadn't moved from his spot on the couch._

_ "You ok?"she asked, taking her seat next to him on the edge of the cushion._

_ He turned to look at her. Sometimes, when things were good, she forgot how empty his eyes could get. Sometimes she thought she believed him when he smiled, or played jokes, or hid Van Pelt's car keys. Sometimes it seemed like he had left Red John and everything else behind him. But then a case would come along, and he would stare right through her, as if she were invisible, as if he were looking beyond her at something on the horizon. And then she remembered. He was unreachable._

_ The glass of water trembled a little, water sloshing against the sides of the cup like a small sea storm contained in the palm of her hand._

_ She placed the glass in his hands._

_ She was Lisbon, the fixer. And, as she watched Jane stare into the water as if it held all of the answers in the world, she realized that what she wanted most to fix was the one thing she absolutely couldn't._


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hello. Sorry for the wait on this one. Real life has a way of getting busy exactly when you don't need it to. As always, thanks for your reviews.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Mentalist.**

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

3:15 pm

Jane had never been much of a runner. He usually left the suspect-chasing to Cho or Rigsby. They were the ones with the handcuffs, anyway. But he did imagine things. And he imagined that a runner would feel much the same way after a race as he did after solving a puzzle. Breathless, fatigued, and somewhat high on adrenaline.

He reached for his phone, let his finger hover over the 'one' button, and then froze. As much as habit would direct him to push it, common sense and the memory of Lisbon's eyes moved his finger instead to the 'recent calls' list, where he settled on the much safer and, at the moment, better equipped 'Seymour.'

Two rings.

"Jane?"

"I want everything you can get on Shelby Solomon."

"The kid from the fire?"

"Yes. The newspaper article says he moved out west after the fire to live with an aunt. Check for a sister of his mother's named Ruby. Then look in the Visualize records for the same woman. She should have been a resident chef there sometime during the sixties."

"Visualize? Jane—"

"Then I want you to look into Dr. Edgar Flanders and see if he ever had contact with Visualize, Ruby, or this boy. Becker's psychology journal says Flanders was working on a research project involving the development of a young sociopath. I want you to call the journalist who wrote the Flanders article and get me whatever you can. His name is Timothy Alstead—A-l-s-t-e-a-d. He works for the journal _Marvels of Modern Psychology_ based in Sierra Vista. Drive there if you have to. There has to be a connection. They're all dead because they had this information. There has to be a connection."

"Jane—"

"No. Sofia found the tape. A tape with a very disturbing young child proclaiming his love for setting things on fire. She's killed by David Townsend. But before she dies, she calls Becker, the friendly neighborhood psychiatrist spilling his midlife crisis to Sofia, the waitress who serves him his coffee every morning. He needs a project. She supplies the specimen. Bam! She's dead. Becker, the nosy old codger, sees the opportunity as too good to pass up. Pretty soon, he has the tape and a newspaper article on a suspiciously familiar kitchen fire. Then he turns up dead, killed by the very same person as Sofia Morrison for possessing the very same information. And then his killer is killed for taking a copy of the article. There has to be a connection. Shelby Solomon is the connection."

"_Jane._ I'm not telling you there isn't a connection. But Visualize…those people don't keep records of their members. At least none that anyone can actually access. And if this is for Rigsby, as much as I want to, I can't get a warrant. That's Des Moines' case, not ours."

"The Red John case is ours."

Jane had expected silence, and it came. For almost twenty seconds, he listened to his own breath echoing back at him through the phone. He wondered at how he could be breathing in two places at once: in in Iowa, out in California. In in California, out in Iowa.

"The Red John case?" Seymour's voice lost half its volume. "You mean—"

"I don't mean. I think. And I can't know until you get me the information."

"Jane, I don't have access to—"

"Seymour, I would normally have time to listen to your legal dribble, but I am sorry to say I don't particularly care right now. The difference between you and me is that you can have access if you tried, whereas I can't. And, as this is somewhat urgent, I would appreciate your cooperation. Call me back when you get it."

Jane found it difficult to drink tea from a shaking cup. So, for the first time in a long time, he got up, walked to the sink, and watched as the dark liquid stained the white porcelain and slipped quietly down the drain.

* * *

2013

Sunday, May 12

9:15 am

_The park bench was shaded by an ancient oak tree. Its long leaves cast shadows that rippled around him like sunlight under water. _

_ Had it not been for the fact that his charred lungs were able to take in air, he would have believed he _was_ underwater. Everything sounded so far away, muffled by some invisible screen he didn't remember placing around himself. He didn't remember much of anything at all._

_ There was a rusting bandage around his wrist, placed there in such a hasty manner that the crooked strip of white tape was beginning to peel away. A man with a radio. That was the flash of memory attached to the bandage. A man with a radio and flashing red lights and people pressing in around him. Chaos. The smell of smoke._

_ Something pressed into his side as he leaned back against the bench's wrought iron armrest. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a rectangular piece of leather. A wallet. Gingerly, he flipped through its leaves. Money, a driver's license, credit cards, and a photo. A photo of a little girl, eyes wide, looking at the camera from behind a single lit candle. A birthday cake._

_ And then he remembered one more thing: a desperate need to get home._

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

6:09 pm

Rosie's hair was a mess. She had refused to let Lisbon anywhere near it that morning and the result was a rather straggly ponytail that very much resembled a palm tree in a hurricane.

"Your mommy's coming home tonight," Lisbon whispered to the little girl on her hip, wrinkling her nose as a few wisps from the palm tree tickled her cheek. "Do you know that?"

"Momma?" Rosie questioned.

"Yep. Poppy's bringing her home from the hospital. And we're cooking her a big dinner." Lisbon turned around to let Rosie observe the chaos spread across her grandparents' kitchen.

The little girl stretched out her hand for a spoon resting against the side of a bubbling pot. Lisbon stepped closer, bringing it within her reach. Rosie grasped the spoon and clumsily began to stir.

"You helping Miss Lisbon with dinner?" A frail voice came from behind them.

"Nana!" Rosie screeched in Lisbon's ear.

The older woman was thin, almost skeletal, and her skin had a strange look to it, like parchment pulled too tightly. A gangly string of wooden beads hanging heavily against her chest, a gift from Rosie, seemed the only thing anchoring her to the ground. But her smile was bright and open and her eyes, though somewhat glassy, shone in a way so breathtakingly similar to Grace's that Lisbon had been taken quite aback the first time they met.

"Hey there, kiddo." Joanna Van Pelt held out her arms for the child. Lisbon was hesitant to hand Rosie to her grandmother for fear that they would both topple to the ground. But Joanna was deceptively strong, and took Rosie with what seemed like the smallest effort, settling her against her chest and beginning a conversation about nothing.

Lisbon reveled in the simple elegance of this fragile person whose once refined clothing hung around her like cheap apartment drapes. If she had ever wondered where Grace had gotten it, the answer stood in front of her in thick woolen socks, in a kitchen glowing with warmth, looking like someone had lit a lantern inside her chest as she laughed with her granddaughter.

A sudden tightness caught Lisbon's breath as she saw the lovely picture in front of her being ripped apart and scattered in the breeze. Good things just had a way of unraveling. And nothing she did could hold them together. She had tried before, when she was younger. When all the innocence in her brothers' eyes slowly drained away, in spite of her desperate patchwork of homemade dinners and homework checking and strained family photos taken in between school and the night shift. It still drained away, slipped through her aching fingers like seawater cupped in the palm of her hand, leaving only bits of sand stuck in a salty film, remnants of the life that used to be there.

It was happening again, and she felt lost. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Not again.

Jane sat across the hallway, dead to the world and strung out on theories like some illicit substance she should confiscate, except it was very probably the only thing keeping him from drowning.

* * *

2013

Sunday, May 12

10:36 am

_The leather seat smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and grease. Still, Rigsby leaned his head back against the headrest, too exhausted to care that he was adding the scent of fast food to the already putrid mixture of smoke and sweat permeating his clothing. The smell of stale hamburger reminded him of his empty stomach, and he tried to remember the last time he ate. Yesterday, probably._

_ By some miracle, he had managed to hail a taxi and direct it to the nearest airport. It was odd. He knew from the feeling in his throat that his voice, though hoarse, was working. But he couldn't hear it coming out of his mouth. The haggard taxi driver had gawked a bit as Rigsby shouted his destination at him, but he wasn't sure if it was because of the volume of his voice or the ragged appearance of his clothing. Nevertheless, they were now heading down an unfamiliar road, the cab's old engine vibrating jarringly beneath them as the driver sped through Des Moines toward the airport._

_ Now if he could only remember why he needed to get there._

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

7:12 pm

Grace was fading. Her red-rimmed eyes drifted sluggishly, when they moved at all. Her pale skin dipped into the hollows of her cheeks, and when her folded hands parted to run themselves over her temples, Lisbon could see the sticky residue of the medical tape that had held the IV in place on the back of her hand.

But she smiled thinly at them all as they sat around her at the dinner table, making light conversation and responding absently to Rosie's chatters. Her parents tossed worried glances at the back of her head, meeting Lisbon's eyes once or twice, but then returned to their casual discussion of the new restaurant in town and the plays made by a promising new quarterback at the college where Amos Van Pelt had coached.

They were hovering in limbo, everyone keeping up appearances for the other and each longing for the retreat that could only come after an acceptable amount of time was spent having dinner together.

Except for Jane. Lisbon knew he had never cared much for keeping up appearances, preferring to state things as frankly and bluntly as possible, even in politically or socially tense situations. Especially then. And sometimes, when her job wasn't in danger, Lisbon secretly enjoyed seeing those pretentious socialites taken down a peg. But, dammit, this was for Grace, not some adulterous senator. And he could listen to that goddamn tape some goddamn other time.

She felt the stress and grief and anger and every other emotion of the last few days well up inside her, like the lockbox in which she had hidden them away suddenly broke open, spilling toxins into her system. A cold heat sparked in her chest, and, as she watched Jane tighten his grip on Cho's mp3 player, the faraway light of obsession clouding his eyes, she nearly choked on it.

"Jane."

He didn't respond.

She jerked up from her chair, startling everyone out of the quiet exchange of words they had fallen into.

"Excuse us," she said, struggling to keep her voice within its normal register as she crossed the table, yanked the earphones from Jane's ears and strode to the screen door leading to the porch. He followed her out, the bang of the door against its frame thrusting them into the next moment.

The air was thick and heavy, buzzing with the sounds of summer insects. It was almost claustrophobic, closing in around them as they stood facing each other across the weather-beaten porch.

He looked calm, expectant, a glint of annoyance in his eyes. It was barely there, well contained behind that mask of superior intellect and eerie composure. She wanted to hit him, to shove him into the whitewashed wall and tell him he was an idiot. A cold, selfish idiot.

"Why do you do this?" she said, letting the accusation in her voice bite through the space between them.

"Why do I do what, exactly?" His voice was calm, collected. She wanted to scream.

"Close yourself off, pull away. From us—everybody." Her voice rose. "Like you're the only one who's feeling this. Like it didn't happen to all of us."

He remained silent, staring holes through her like she wasn't there. And maybe she wasn't.

She whirled around, steadying herself against a railing. "And not just this, Jane. Not just now. You do this with Red John. Whenever he comes back, it's like none of it matters anymore. Like we never—like it never meant anything. That they risk their jobs and their _lives_ trying to help you catch him. Why doesn't that matter to you?"

Something darker was swirling behind the façade, but he his eyes met hers with that same wall of maddening composure.

"Dammit, Jane," she stamped her foot against the worn wooden floorboards, sending a vibration through the porch. "You're not invincible. You can't do this by yourself, no matter how much you think you want to. Or have to, or whatever the hell goes on in your mind." Lisbon took a step toward him, the bell of a wind chime inches from her nose. She looked at him through the metal bars. "You're not invincible. We want to catch him as badly as you do. Why—"

"Don't ever make the mistake of thinking that."

His voice startled her, both in its presence and in the fierce tone it took. He was searching her face, the composure still there, but lessened somehow in the obvious effort it took him to keep it.

She stared back questioningly, the heat of her anger fading a little as the day cooled to evening around them. "What?"

"Don't make that mistake," Jane repeated, his eyes leaving hers and flitting around the porch. "You don't—you can't want him like I do." He sighed deeply, a shuddering sound, as he ran a hand over his face. The wall holding him together was crumbling. "Do you think I want this for you—for any of you? Do you think I _want_ you to risk your lives to help me?" Jane turned away, his hand coming to rest on the head of a terracotta tiger. It looked for all the world like he was simply observing the way the trees swayed in the summer breeze, but Lisbon could see the lines deepen on his face. He was rebuilding the wall.

She shook her head, trying to process the absurdity of the words coming out of Jane's mouth. "Jane, we're officers of the law. It's our _job_ to catch people who break it. And yes, sometimes we risk our lives to do that. It's what we were trained to do."

His eyes traced the lengthening shadows of the birch trees, his voice deliberately steady. "Yes, Lisbon, well I'm not trained to watch you throw your lives away. I don't need more blood on my hands."

The anger began to burn again, this time behind her eyes. "Jane, if you still think it's your—"

Jane turned again to face her, his gaze resting heavily on hers. "Don't be naïve, Lisbon. Of course it's my fault." His voice softened dangerously. "I let them die. I could have changed, but I didn't. I was too late."

Lisbon only watched as he crossed the porch and reached in his vest pocket for the mp3 player. _You could change now—you _have_ changed. _

His voice floated back to her, mixed with the chirping of crickets and the rustling of long summer grass.

"You can't want him as badly as I do… you don't deserve to."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Thank you all for reviewing. I hope I didn't miss anyone.**

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

7:23 pm

She leaned back against the porch swing, watching the chains strain as she pushed off a little with her foot. The wood creaked under her. A firefly blinked near a flowerpot balanced on the whitewashed railing.

Jane stood in the far corner of the porch, barely a grey silhouette against a hazy pastel sky. The sun was setting.

They hadn't spoken in several minutes, Jane absorbed once more in the recording he was playing and Lisbon a little too lost to leave him just yet.

There was something he wasn't telling her. He was desperately searching for answers anywhere he could get them. But answers to what? She wasn't sure she wanted to know, to get caught up in the tide of obsession that was carrying him away. Rigsby was gone. And somehow, Jane was trying to bring him back.

Once, in the basement of an old shack, he had all but admitted he would kill himself for a chance at Red John. She had protested, and he had responded by telling her that some things—that _he_ could not be fixed. That it was the way of the world.

She was so goddamn tired of the way of the world.

But she believed him, now. She looked across at him, standing there like everything was coming down around him, and believed that there was nothing in this world she could do to save him.

The firefly blinked again near her shoe.

Footsteps echoed from inside.

Cho threw the door open. "It wasn't him!"

Lisbon jumped up from the swing. "What?" She saw Jane turn around to look at them.

Cho, out of breath, was caught between disbelief, bewilderment, and stark relief. "The DNA results came back. It wasn't him!"

Lisbon felt the world lurch back into place.

* * *

2013

Sunday, May 12

10:59 am

_The woman at the counter was staring. He couldn't remember why that bothered him. He simply shoved a fistful of cash at her and said "Sacramento." The word rumbled in his throat, but it didn't look like the woman had heard him. He said it louder. She jumped, spilling a cup of ball-point pens across the scarred plastic counter._

_ A minute later, he had the ticket in his hand._

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

8:05 pm

Detective Gorman was pacing in front of his desk, holding a file folder and occasionally glancing up at a white board cluttered with photos, notes, and screenshots.

"Hey, Chambers, get me that—" Gorman stopped mid-sentence when he saw them all standing in the doorway. "Agent Lisbon, come in."

She stepped inside, Cho, Grace, and Jane flanking her. "What happened?" was all she asked, though she wanted to drag them all into a closet and tear them apart.

"The DNA came back. It wasn't a match. We ran it three times." Gorman sighed, looking down at the file once more and then letting his gaze travel over them all. They had come directly from dinner. Grace still had a paper napkin balled up inside her fist and, despite her obvious fatigue, had insisted on coming. The stress in her face was evident, as was her determination to remain standing. Lisbon was sure the rest of them looked nearly as bad. "I'm very sorry to have put you all through this."

They remained silent.

Gorman turned to the white board. "There was another entrance into Flanders' office from the next hallway over. It led into the conference room. But we didn't think to look at the tapes from that hallway because it looked like the two bodies found in Flanders' office were already accounted for. Two in, two out.

"But when the DNA results came back, we started rethinking our timeline."

Cho coughed.

Gorman continued after a backwards glance. "It seems that another person entered the office through the conference room door at around six o'clock that evening. It is possible that he was the other body, and that Mr. Rigsby, if he was able to walk, could have left the scene during the time when the cameras were obscured."

"But where is he now?" Grace stepped forward, her voice barely audible. "Why didn't he come back?"

"I don't know." Gorman shook his head. "We have BOLOs out at all the hospitals and airports. Our ME says he would have been disoriented, at the very least. He was probably pretty banged up. You never know, he might have been taken to a hospital and been unable to tell them his name. We're doing everything we can, ma'am."

Lisbon bit back a comment at those words. She had used them many times herself, but to be on the receiving end at a time when "everything we can" had obviously not been enough was maddening. Grace had clearly felt it too, but made no move to challenge the detective. In fact, she looked as if she were about to collapse onto the floor. Lisbon quickly grabbed her elbow and steered her into a nearby chair.

"Grace." The younger woman didn't respond, and Lisbon reached a hand to grasp her wrist. "Grace." This time, Grace turned to face her, meeting her concerned eyes but seeming unable to focus her gaze. Lisbon felt her chest tighten. "Grace, do you want some water?"

Grace seemed to be processing her words, but didn't immediately reply. Finally, she nodded.

Spotting a water cooler in the corner of the room, Lisbon made her way over to it and was able to catch snippets of Gorman's continued analysis of the case. How the DNA sample taken from the second body had not come up with any matches in the database. How they were beginning to cross-reference names of employees and visitors on the seventh floor with a list of survivors to see if anyone was missing—if anyone could be that body in the office. How no John Does had showed up in nearby hospitals, but they were still looking. How the BOLOs sent to airports and train stations were just covering all bases. How they were sure Rigsby would turn up somewhere in Des Moines very soon. She vaguely registered Cho muscling his way into a group being sent out to canvass.

Lisbon returned to her seat, handed Grace a paper cup filled with cool water, and watched as she brought it to her lips. The jagged cut across the young agent's forehead had begun bleeding a little into the white bandage taped across it, a small red stain seeping slowly into the cotton. Her face, if at all possible, had grown paler in the last hour.

"I don't think I can do this."

Lisbon turned at Grace's words. The younger woman's eyes were searching the office frantically, as if looking for somewhere to hide from her admission.

"Yes you can," she replied fiercely.

Grace met her eyes. "What if he really is dead? What if all of this is just some—just prolonging it? I'm not brave enough to do this. If it happens again…I can't. I just can't."

Shaking her head, Lisbon took Grace's hand and gripped it tightly. "Yes you can. You will _not_ give up. You're too strong for that. Do you understand me?" She could feel Grace beginning to slip away too. And she was not about to let that happen. Not now, when, by some miracle, there was still something left of them to fix. She placed her other hand around Grace's, encircling the thin fingers with her palms, and willed Grace to stay with her, to stay together. "Do you understand me?" she repeated sternly.

Grace sighed, and then nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek.

"Good."

* * *

2013

Sunday, May 12

9:03 pm

_He held the photograph in his fingers, tracing the fold that ran like a fault line across the baby's face. There was something tenuous surrounding it, but something real and immediate. It felt as if the picture was tethering him to his seat, and his mind to the moment. He could almost feel a physical manifestation of the tether every time his eyes tried to close, every time his mind tried to drift. He was glad for it, because otherwise, he wasn't sure he would be able to breathe. It was like being stuck in a dream, unable to wake up. If he stared at the picture for long enough, maybe it would bring him back to wherever he was supposed to be, to whatever he was supposed to do._

_ Something brushed his shoulder. He turned, struggling to focus on the brown eyes staring back at him from the face of a young man._

_ The young man's mouth moved and he gestured at Rigsby's shoulder._

_ He looked down to find a rusted stain on the edge of his collar._

_ The young man stared at him concernedly, but relaxed a bit when Rigsby shrugged and growled out the word "shaving."He seemed to accept it as a reasonable explanation._

_ Thin fingers reached for the picture. Rigsby tightened his hold, looking accusingly at his companion. The fingers withdrew, but the young man's mouth formed words. Something apologetic. "Just asking," or so Rigsby thought._

_ Rigsby stared._

_ The young man repeated. "Is that your daughter?"_

_The tether tightened._

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

8:27 pm

"Lisbon."

She looked up to see Jane standing over her. He seemed to be contemplating whether to talk to her or take off in the opposite direction. She waited until he made up his mind.

"I need to tell you something."

Nodding, she released Grace's hand gently, not wanting to wake her, and followed Jane out the door and down a dim hallway.

He walked briskly, and Lisbon almost had to jog to keep up. Then, just as suddenly, he stopped and spun to face her.

"Do you remember the Morrison case? The intern at Visualize was killed?"

Lisbon nodded, bewildered.

"Then, a year later, the Becker case."

Knitting her eyebrows, Lisbon nodded again. "Yes. They were both killed by David Townsend. But Jane—"

"And then David Townsend was killed."

"Ye-es." Lisbon stretched out the word, still unsure of what Jane was getting at.

"They were connected, Lisbon. All of them."

"Well, yes. They were. Visualize hired Townsend to kill Morrison and Becker and then they killed Townsend before he could incriminate himself…" She left the sentence open, waiting for him to fill it in with something relevant.

Jane paced in front of her, agitated at her lack of understanding. "Yes, but _why_? Why would they kill their cleaner when they could just get him off like they did before? And why would they kill Morrison and Becker? Two people, a year apart. Did we ever even answer that question?"

Lisbon sighed. "We assumed they had done something to anger Visualize, obviously. Shared some proprietary information. That's what that phone call from the restaurant was, right? But Jane, what does this—"

He stopped pacing to face her. "_Everything,_ Lisbon. It has everything to do with everything. They killed Townsend not because they were afraid he would incriminate them, or himself. No, they killed him because he knew the same thing Morrison and Becker did. The same thing that got them killed. Lisbon, they knew—they knew the identity of Red _John._"

She blinked.

Jane's hands began to shake. He ran one over his face. "Lisbon, they knew _who he was_." Turning away, he sighed and whirled on her again, his eyes swirling with a dark intensity that caused her breath to hitch. "The vent videos. Remember them? Well, they had the same thing back in 1964, recorded on cassette tapes. 1964, the same year a little boy named Shelby Solomon survived a kitchen fire and came to live with his aunt at Visualize. The same year a young Dr. Edgar Flanders, a school friend of Brett Stiles, began his case study on an unnamed child sociopath."

Lisbon opened her mouth, but Jane was too caught up in the momentum of his theory to notice or care. She shut it again, not knowing what she would have said, even if she had the space to speak.

Jane continued eagerly. "Fifty years later, Sofia Morrison serves coffee to Dr. Jeremy Becker, one of Flanders' former students. As part of her internship at Visualize, she is assigned to organize and transcribe the old vent tapes. Same old story. I cheated on my wife, I didn't do my homework, I only pretend to like that dress. Except, whoops! The early life of a serial killer, recorded for your convenience. She brings the tape to Becker, who snaps out of his midlife crisis, conveniently becomes a member of the cult, and calls old Flanders, who is delighted to have an assistant with insider's access to Visualize. Stiles had begun to close him out in recent years. Afraid Red John would find out he was being pandered to an overeager psychologist with a flair for drama."

Lisbon breathed deeply, trying to keep up with the trajectory of Jane's statements.

"But of course, he found out. Of course he did. He always does… Stiles flew here, to Des Moines, to see Flanders. He must have followed him. That's how it must have happened. But they like to watch their work. So he would have been there. To watch it burn."

She shook her head. "Jane, I don't—"

"He set the bomb."

"Who did?"

"Red John!" Jane practically yelled. "Red John set the bomb in Flanders' office to destroy the research—to kill Flanders as well. Don't you see? Red John found out about the project—that they had been watching him, tracking him this whole time. And nobody knew. _He_ didn't know. But Stiles did—and that's how he knew. About everything. About my wife…But then Morrison and Becker were killed, and then Townsend. A neat little trail back to Stiles and Flanders. Stiles meant to cover it up, of course, by killing them. But it just led straight back to him. The fool. And now. Now he knows." A strange grin broke out across Jane's face. "He's not invincible. And he knows it."

They stood together in silence, Jane's eyes flitting around the darkening hallway, entirely lost in the waves of discovery that were crashing over him, and Lisbon attempting to sort through all of the information that had been thrown haphazardly at her in the last minutes.

"So, you're saying, you're _guessing_, that whoever that boy was from the fire, in 1964—that that's Red John? And Edgar Flanders has been studying him all this time? Jane, that's—"

"Impossible? I know," he said breathlessly. "Which makes it all the more damaging. He's been operating under the assumption that he is in control. Of his kills. Of everything." Jane leaned toward her, his breath brushing across her cheeks, eyes boring into hers. "But he's not. That means there's a way…to track him, to anticipate him. Flanders did …and now, he's unstable. Now he's broken pattern. Or returned to pattern. Fire." At that new thought, Jane turned away, bright anticipation burning in his eyes. "This is it."

Lisbon swallowed. "Jane…"

"We could catch him this time, Lisbon."

* * *

2013

Monday, May 13

2:43 am

_The loud city lights glowed distantly overhead. Something like old socks and exhaust from a thousand cars clogged the alley as he stumbled over a discarded beer bottle. Catching himself against a cool brick wall, he stared out through the smog at the neon sign for a Chinese place. _"Open All Times," _it read, and he figured it was as good a place as any._

_ Rigsby stepped carefully across the street and opened the door with some effort. The cramped store was painted a faded pastel green and smelled strongly of frying oil. An older man peered at him from behind the counter, moving his mouth into shapes that looked something like "…elp you?"which Rigsby took as his opening._

_ "Do you know where I can get a cab?" he threw out, hoping the scratchiness in his throat was a sign that it was issuing noise._

_ The man squinted at him from behind thick lenses and pointed a finger toward a folded paper menu lying on a nearby table._

_ Rigsby shook his head. "No, I don't want food."A lie, really, as he had probably never wanted food so much in his life. However, there were more pressing things to be done. "I want a cab. You know, like driving?" He made steering motions with his hand._

_ The man shook his head back and moved his lips again. Rigsby didn't catch any of it this time._

_ Sighing, he sat down in a plastic chair at an equally plastic table. He didn't know why he was bothering. It wasn't as though he would be able to direct the cab even if he could somehow manage to call one. The cabbie wouldn't know where he lived any more than he did._

_ He flipped open the menu, searching for something recognizable. The man had come up behind him and was hovering over his shoulder. _

_ "Egg foo yung. Please," he grunted, pointing at a digital photo next to the number 67. The man nodded, grinning._

_ The food was surprisingly good, given its birthplace. He supposed that was always the way it was with restaurants—the shabbier the building, the better the food._

_ It wasn't until he reached into his wallet for a ten and two ones that he saw it. His driver's license. Complete with a rather unbecoming picture of him gaping at the DMV camera, his loopy signature, and…his address. Or what he hoped beyond hope was his address. It was something anyway, a place to start._

_ He waved the man over, handed him the check, and headed down the street to a 24-hour drug store. The teenage girl behind the counter stared, but offered to call for him once it became obvious he couldn't use a phone._

_ Twenty minutes later, he leaned once more against the leather of a cab's bench seat and watched the buildings flash by in blurs of light, heading to somewhere called Sangrey Street._

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

8:46 pm

Footsteps echoed in the hallway behind them, but Lisbon didn't bother to turn around.

"Agent Lisbon?"

She looked at the young man gazing intently at them in the dim light of the hallway, his breathing nearly as ragged as Jane's.

"Agent Lisbon, you should come with me."

The insistence in his voice was unmistakable, and Lisbon made to follow him. Absently, she registered the sound of Jane falling into step behind her.

The bullpen was practically buzzing with energy as they passed through the doorway.

"Somebody ID'd him off the local news broadcast," Gorman flung out over his shoulder before turning back to the whiteboard.

Lisbon's throat clenched. "Where is he?"

"We don't know. We're—"

"You just said someone saw him!" She didn't bother keeping the edge of desperation from her voice.

Gorman turned to face her, a look of forced patience plastered messily across his face. "Yes, but not today. The person who ID'd him was a sales clerk at the ticket desk at Des Moines International Airport. Apparently, Mr. Rigsby bought a ticket there Sunday night. We're trying to track down the airline. Warrant is in the works for the plane's manifest when we find it." He spun back to the board and continued scratching the word "missing" under a picture of Rigsby's face.

His back held a note of finality that Lisbon recognized. It was the look of determination that often wove itself through their own bullpen at the beginning of a promising lead. The same breathlessness, the same resolve, the same reckless pacing to get to the bottom of it as soon as humanly possible and move on. You never found out whether it was worth your time until you were finished spending time on it.

She found her seat by Van Pelt and sank heavily into it, knowing that anything she did or said right now would upset the chaos that was Gorman's well-oiled machine. It was only as she let her eyes drift over the young agent's sleeping form that her mind attached itself to an unending stream of questions, not least of which were _"What on earth was he doing on a plane?"_ and, more importantly, _"Why would he leave her?"_


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: Once again, thank you for your reviews and for continuing to read. We are nearing the end...**

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Mentalist.**

* * *

2013

Monday, May 13

6:08 am

_The back of his head was sore from leaning against the metal doorframe. Apparently, he had left his keys somewhere that was not his pocket. Knowing where home was didn't help much when all you could do was stare at the door._

_ A vibration to his left startled him from his perusal of the faint chips and scratches near the door handle. A woman's shoe came into view, then a handbag, then a face._

_ Her lips moved with a knowing smile as she took in his position, slumped sideways against the door. Apparently she knew him well, as her sentence was tagged with a pat on the shoulder and a hand offered to pull him up._

_ "Forgot my keys," he grunted, not caring to explain the whole story when he didn't know most of it himself. Let her think he had had a rough night on the town. It was true, in a manner of speaking._

_ He found himself being led into the next apartment over, sat down on a leather sofa, and handed a glass of water. The woman stared at him bemusedly, shaking her head at what must have appeared to be a very hung-over neighbor. The room dimmed in little slits as she spun the blinds closed and he found that a blanket had been dropped into his lap._

_ She looked over her shoulder and gave him one last smirk, though gentler this time, before closing the door behind her._

_ The last thing he remembered before he slipped into sleep was the strange familiarity of a leather couch._

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

8:47 pm

Jane watched as Lisbon took her seat next to Grace. Rigsby was alive. He had known this, of course, but to have it confirmed was still gratifying. And a relief, but he tried not to think about that.

Detective Gorman brushed by, a casefile in hand. The whole process was more chaotic when observed from a distance. It was a wonder none of the police officers had been trampled in the surge of sheer energetic action that had overtaken the place.

His pocket vibrated. It was Seymour.

"Hello?" he asked, stepping further out into the hallway.

"Jane? Hey, I wanted to let you know I found Solomon."

His heart exploded. "Where?"

"Well, I looked into that Ruby woman, like you asked. Visualize was airtight, as expected, but she's got a will that's public record. She left some property in Fresno to her nephew. So I drove out here and took a look. It's a watch repair shop. They have more old clocks here than Grand Central Station. Anyway, I talked to the assistant, Charles Wheeler. He says Solomon owns the place, alright, but he's on a trip somewhere. Won't be back until tomorrow. Do you want me to set up an interview with him?"

In the time it had taken Seymour to finish his tale, Jane had caught his breath, stilled his heart, and jumped headlong into cold, hard theory. "Is the assistant still with you?"

"Yeah, he's inside. Lives in an apartment above the shop. Why?"

"Put him on the phone."

There was a rustling of cloth and the screech of a door opening. Then, a young man's voice came over the receiver.

"Charles Wheeler?"

"Charlie, yes. Who is this?"

"It doesn't matter. What does matter is that you remember exactly what Shelby Solomon said to you before he left. I want you to think back to that day, think back to the words he spoke to you, and tell me exactly what they were."

The young man sighed into the speaker. "Um…ok. Well, he said 'I'm going to away for a few days. Expect me back on Wednesday.' That's all, really. Oh, and uh, 'Be sure and wash out the tea pot.' But that's about it."

"He didn't say anything else about where he was going? Anything at all?"

There was a pause, filled with the distant ticking of a dozen clocks. "No. He was acting a little strange, though. He kept staring at Mr. Hammond's pocket watch and saying "they know." He doesn't usually talk while he works, but Mr. Hammond is very particular about his watch and Mr. Solomon might have been nervous about adjusting the second hand. Well, not nervous exactly. He never gets nervous. But Mr. Hammond said it was running a minute fast, and Mr. Solomon told him it was only off by about a quarter of a second. It's a tricky business, you know, in those old watches…"

Jane had been ignoring the majority of Wheeler's monologue, choosing instead to focus on the distinct feeling of triumph growing in his chest.

"… Oh, and he talked about going to see a lady named Rose. I'm not sure who that is, but he's never talked about her before. I don't think she's a customer—"

"Rose?" The glowing triumph chilled. "Did he say anything else about her?"

"Uh…"

"Think! Did he say anything else?"

"No. He didn't," Wheeler bit out indignantly. "All he said was something about meeting a lady named Rose at the end of the road. That's it. And before you ask, he didn't mention the name of the road or where it—"

Jane slammed the phone shut and spun on his heel, ignoring the insistent vibrating in his pocket as he strode back to the bullpen.

"Lisbon!"

She turned quickly at the sound of her name, her eyes meeting his and freezing. He must not have hidden his panic well.

"Wake up Grace. Now. Get her to call home."

Lisbon's gaze questioned, but she moved to shake Grace's shoulder.

Within a minute, Grace had her phone out and was dialing. As each ring brought another, the tension in the room grew palpably. By the twelfth ring, the phone had slowly come to rest in her lap.

"They didn't answer," she whispered.

* * *

2013

Monday, May 13

8:10 pm

_ Someone was shaking his shoulder._

_ "Gway, Grace," he mumbled. Or thought he did. What was wrong with his voice?_

_ He opened his eyes to see nothing but the dark outline of a shape in front of him. An attempt at struggling to sit up was met with a slicing pain behind his eyes. He grabbed his head._

_ The shape moved away. A few seconds later, a dim light was flicked on and the shape, a woman in a red pantsuit, pressed two pills and a glass of cool water into his hand._

_ He grunted his thanks and, with as little movement possible, swallowed the pills. Sweeping his gaze around the room, he could find nothing familiar about it. But he was discovering that didn't mean much._

_ A hand grabbed his shoulder and the woman's face lowered into his line of sight. Her lips moved. "…grace…work…didn't…keys…now…"was all he caught. And frankly, he didn't care. All he wanted was to lie back down and forget about trying to remember what he had forgotten. Forgetting about having a head sounded good right now._

_ But the woman caught his elbow and, with some effort, helped him to his unsteady feet. They made their slow way to the door, which was open a crack and easily swung aside to reveal a little old woman wrapped in a navy blue cardigan. She grinned at him, moved her mouth in greeting, and held up a golden key dangling from an embroidered tag reading "Rigsby."_

_ His key. His spare house key. He could have hugged the woman. Instead, he gave her a tired grin in return, took the key, and slid it into the lock on his door. It fit._

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

8:49 pm

"Try it again," he said, reaching for the phone cradled in Grace's hands.

Grace looked up, the first spark of life showing in the determined set of her face. "Why? What's going on, Jane?"

Jane took a quick breath in, searching for and finding Lisbon's gaze before beginning, slowly, deliberately. "Seymour found him. Solomon. He left last Friday. He told his assistant he was going to see someone called Rose."

They stared at him for a few suspended seconds. "You don't think he meant—?"

But Lisbon's eyes told him she knew exactly what he thought he meant. She turned sharply. "Grace, call that number again."

Grace had already left the room, leaving them to trail quickly after her.

"Jane." Lisbon's voice was urgent as they hastily descended the concrete stairs, the stairwell's heavy metal door clanging behind them with unhappy finality.

A plastic rectangle was pressed into her hand. "It was the last number dialed."

They spilled out into the parking lot and followed Grace through the pools of orange light cast by the metal streetlamps.

Grace yanked open the car door, but was stopped by Lisbon's hand on her arm.

"Grace—"

Grace's eyes flashed dangerously as she whipped around. "I might not know exactly what is going on here, but I know that look." She gestured at Jane. "It's Red John, isn't it?"

Without waiting for confirmation, she shook off Lisbon's hand. "This is my child. _My child._ Don't you dare try to stop me."

Lisbon shook her head. "I wasn't trying to stop you. But do you really think you should be driving right now?"

She was already in the car with the engine started. "Yes. I do."

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

8:34 pm

_The digital alarm clock on the bedside table was broken. Oh, it told time well enough. The radio worked—most of the time. But it had the nasty habit of ringing both at the set time and exactly twelve hours later. No amount of fiddling or claims of "I'll fix it later" seemed to be able to set it right. Eventually, they decided to let well enough alone, as none of them were usually home at six o'clock at night to hear the alarm anyway. It would ring until they got home, and then they would shut it off. It became as much a part of their routine as switching on the lights or tossing the keys on the kitchen counter._

_ Rigsby thought he remembered something about an alarm clock as he heard a distant beeping. As he awoke more fully, he remembered the clock's usual position on the bedside table to his left and swung his arm lazily in its general direction. A mechanical crashing brought him the complete, startling awareness that, not only was he hearing a beeping from his alarm clock at home in the middle of the evening, he was _hearing. _For the first time in nearly three days, he was hearing noise that didn't come in buzzing screeches or faint vibrations. He could hear._

_ With that realization came another, and another. Memories flashed by lazily, and he snatched at them, managing to hold on to some long enough to imprint its image into his mind. _

_ Not everything was clear, but he remembered enough to jerk up from the bed and dash out of the room, not caring that the dent left by his flinging the door into the wall would be cause for Grace to yell at him for a good three hours. In fact, he hoped she would._

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

8:55

Grace was driving with an abandon that left even Jane clinging to the edge of his seat. Her eyes were flitting wildly between the dark canvas of the road and the lit screen of her cell phone as she tried desperately to get a hold of her parents.

When the call had come about Rigsby, they had left Rosie with her obliging grandparents. Now, Grace was fervently wishing she had been herself enough to insist on bringing Rosie with them, although a bustling police station was really no place for a toddler.

"Damn!" She tossed the phone into the ashtray, gripping the steering wheel so hard that the whiteness of her knuckles was visible even in the dark car.

Something flashed across the small screen, and Jane reached over to pick up the phone.

"Grace?" He dared a fleeting look at the redhead. The bandage on her forehead was slowly peeling off, threatening to flap down over her eyes if another inch of the adhesive fell away. She spared him a nearly feral glance before returning her eyes to the road.

"It says you have a message here from yesterday. From a Gina?" Jane waved the phone. "Is that someone important?"

And by important, he meant immediately relevant to their situation. She shook her head jerkily. "No. No, she's just a neighbor. She—wait." She took a gasping breath. "He might be home. He might have gone home. Play it."

Jane obediently pressed the center button and put the phone on speaker.

_"Hi, Grace. It's Gina from next door. I wanted to let you know that Wayne is on my couch right now sleeping off what looks like a pretty nasty hangover. He was locked out this morning. My guess is that he left his keys at the bar. I called your office, but all they would tell me is that you're away. I hope you took some time off. You definitely deserve it, working all the time and with little Rosie keeping you busy at home. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know. I'm going to try and get Bernice to give me your spare key after I get home from work so Wayne can sleep in his own bed tonight. Call me back. Okay. Bye."_

"Oh my God," Grace breathed, nearly letting go of the steering wheel as her hands unclenched and grew limp with the rest of her body. "He's ok. He's home," she whispered, as if to remind herself.

Lisbon leaned in from the back seat. "When was that message from?"

Jane flicked at the screen. "Six fifteen yesterday morning."

"Give me the phone," Grace all but demanded, snatching the device from Jane's hands while still managing to keep the car from veering off the road.

She pushed the number one. All she got was a toneless beeping in her ear.

Keeping one finger on the 'redial' button, she stamped her foot on the accelerator and the car lurched forward.

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

8:55 pm

_Rigsby stumbled into the kitchen, nearly knocking a bowl of apples from the counter in his haste._

_ "Grace!" he yelled hoarsely. It hurt his throat, but he kept on anyway. "Grace!"_

_ He staggered through the living room and flung open the door leading to Rosie's room. "Grace! Rosie!"_

_ The crib was empty. He tore at the blankets anyway, leaving the mobile spinning in a dizzying jerk of color as thrown cloth collided with paper birds._

_ As he continued to move through the apartment in a whirlwind of desperation, he felt more and more pieces fall together in the back of his mind. It was as he was checking the front closet for the fourth time that he remembered why his wife and daughter were not there. They were in Iowa. Iowa…_

_He ran once more to their bedroom and yanked his suit jacket from its position, crumpled on the floor next to a leg of the bedside table. The search of his pockets was made more difficult by the slight tremble in his hands, but he soon found the small, black phone._

_He pushed the number one. All he heard was a toneless beeping in his ear._

_Keeping his finger on the 'redial' button, he hurried to the kitchen, picked up the landline, and dialed the number written neatly on a card taped to the wall nearby._

_Two rings. The slight clatter of plastic on plastic. Then, "Agent Van Pelt's desk, Agent Bailey speaking…"_


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Well, here we are at the end. Thank you all for being such lovely readers. You have made this such a positive experience, and I am very grateful. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Mentalist.**

* * *

2013

Tuesday, May 14

8:59 pm

The car rattled in a small earthquake as Grace sped up the gravel driveway. The darkened house was invisible against the equally black outline of the woods behind it.

The engine was cut off abruptly, its tinny ticking filling the silence.

"There should be lights on," Grace said to no one in particular. "They don't go to bed this early. They would have stayed up and waited for us."

She was out of the car and striding up the driveway before Lisbon could think to stop her.

"Grace!" she yelled out over the insistent pinging of the open driver's door. "Grace, wait!"

But the young agent had already been reduced to a barely discernable shadow moving against the night. Shaking her head in frustration, Lisbon shoved her own door open and rushed after her, Jane following at her heels. "We should call for backup," she said hurriedly, taking her cell phone from her pocket with one hand and her sidearm from its holster with another.

Jane shook his head, a stiffening fear visible in his voice if not in his eyes. "There's no time. Whatever is happening, it's happening now."

The front door banged open. "Mom? Dad?" Grace's voice echoed through the eerily empty house. A light flicked on in one of the front windows, spilling down the porch steps as Lisbon and Jane took them in twos.

They rushed through the door only to see Grace standing by the small table in the front hall, eyes scanning the paper she had clutched in her hand. After a few frozen seconds, her face crumpled and she seemed to melt right into the wall behind her.

"What is it?" Lisbon demanded.

Grace pried her eyes open, a staggering relief in them. She held the paper out. "They're ok. They just went for a walk." Grinning, she pushed herself from the wall and walked briskly back across the hall. "I should have remembered. They've been going for walks every night since Mom's been a little better."

She opened the door and half-jogged down the steps. Lisbon and Jane, who were still trying to come to terms with the drastic shift in events, stared for a moment before Lisbon called after her.

"Grace! Where are you going?"

"I'm going to find them and tell them about Wayne. I'll be back," was the distant reply that seemed to originate from the end of the driveway.

Lisbon found Jane's wary eyes and gave him a weak smile. Of one mind, they made their way to the living room and plopped heavily onto the couch.

"So that was…anticlimactic," Lisbon sighed, feeling her heart finally settling back in her chest.

Jane's lips twitched obligingly, but his face remained impassive.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the temporary truce seeming to stretch thin now that there was no immediate danger. Lisbon let her gaze drift around the room, taking in the faded floral patterns and framed photos. After rearranging her phone and the box of cards on the side table and folding her hands several times in her lap, she sighed and ventured a glance at Jane.

"Do you want some tea?"

Jane stood. "I'll get it."

He left the room and found his way to the kitchen, trailing his fingers along the walls as he navigated through a maze of doors he had only seen once before. Suddenly, he paused. A light shone from the end of a hallway, a sliver of yellow blooming under the thick wood of the kitchen door. As he drew closer, he recognized the outline of a piece of paper taped above the handle. His eyes adjusted more quickly than his mind, and he read the words before he could decide not to:

_Dear Mr. Jane,_

_ There is a power in writing one's own end. It cannot help but meet expectations._

_ Red John_

His hand was turning the handle before he could register its movement or gather his wits enough about him to be afraid. Instead, all he felt was an acidic anticipation as the door creaked open to reveal the black-clad figure of a man standing, his back turned, in the far corner of the room in the dim orange light of the stove lamp. At first, Jane entertained the notion that the man hadn't heard the door. By this time, Jane's fear had caught up with him. His hands shook in a tremor that spread through his chest and soured the breath in his lungs as he fought to expand them. As if he could sense the emotion, the man in black turned slowly around, the leather of his clothing rasping hoarsely in his wake.

The man's face was hidden by a hood that was somehow fastened into his suit. But Jane could tell he was smiling. He held his breath and waited for the tide of fear to ebb from his mind. It didn't.

There was another creak of leather as the man reached into his pocket. Jane flinched back. The man chuckled, but it was so muffled by the cloth over his face that it sounded more like a wheeze. Black gloves clasped a small box.

"Deus ex machina."

A scrape. A hiss. A burst of flame. A match had been lit.

The man was on fire.

Jane realized several things at once. Belatedly, he noticed the tang of gasoline in the air. He also realized that the lit match had hit not only the man's gasoline-soaked cloak, but the floor as well. Most importantly, he realized that, unless he was able to remove the mask before it was consumed by the spreading flames, he would never see Red John's face.

He leapt forward, dodging the hedge of fire that was growing around Red John's burning body, and made to grab for the mask.

Initially, Red John was able to duck out of the way. But as the flames continued to spread, he fell first to his knees, and then onto his side. Jane, struggling to see through his choking panic and the rising smoke, fought his way to the sink, snatched up a dirty coffee mug, and threw its murky contents at the fire. The flames only leapt higher. A gurgling issued from the depths of the man's chest. He was laughing.

Fighting the bile growing in the back of his throat, Jane stumbled back across the kitchen. Only then did he notice the small form resting on a pile of blankets in the opposite corner of the room. Rosie. A wave of horror finally jerked his mind into actual thought.

"Lisbon!" he screamed, and immediately choked on a mouthful of dry, hot smoke. "Lisbon!"

Not waiting for a reply, he ran to the pantry and threw open the door, shoving boxes and cans from the shelves in the vain hope of finding a fire extinguisher. As he darted back into the main kitchen, he caught sight of Lisbon's face as she sprinted into the room. He had never seen that look in her eyes, except perhaps once before. Terror and resignation fought for dominance before receding into cold calculation of fact.

Not sparing him more than a passing glance, Lisbon hurried to Red John's body and threw her blazer over it, attempting to pat down the flames before giving it up as hopeless and heading to the sink, yelling for him to get her phone and call 911.

He shook his head, pausing to cover his nose and mouth with his sleeve before shouting.

"I can't."

Lisbon whipped around with a pasta pot full of water and threw it at the body. The flames on one leg hissed out. "Dammit, Jane! _Now!"_ she shrieked, her hair sticking in mats to the moisture running down her face.

"I can't, Lisbon. It's Red John. I _can't."_He tried desperately do get her to understand. "I have to stay here, but you can get Rosie out."

The wild blaze in Lisbon's eyes grew impossibly at his words. "_Rosie!_ Jane, what the hell!" She darted back across the room, her eyes finding the pile of blankets that held the unconscious child, assessing the situation even as she struggled to refill the pot with water.

Jane felt himself choking again as he watched her frantic movements, as he saw Rosie's face begin to disappear behind rippling waves of heat, the little stuffed lamb blackening with soot. This was how it would end. His gaze fell on the still-burning body of Red John, half hidden behind a wall of flame. Maybe there was still a chance…

He picked his way through the fire that was now eating its way through the kitchen floor. Kneeling down by the body, he reached his hand out to try and snatch the mask when he felt a stinging heat across his cheek. Lisbon had slapped him.

"Get up. Get up right now."

Jane shook his head desperately. "He's making me choose, Lisbon. I—I can't. He knows I can't."

Suddenly, Lisbon was kneeling in front of him and gripping his shoulders. "Jane, you listen to me. Yes you can. Yes you _can._ You can get up right now, you can take that little girl, and you can carry her outside. He doesn't know anything about you, do you understand me? Nothing."

His eyes drifted unconsciously from Red John's body to the bundle of blankets and back again.

"I—"

"Jane. I'll get him out. Jane? Look at me."

He did.

Her eyes were burning with a desperate intensity. "Jane. I'll get him out. Trust me."

After a tense second, he nodded sharply, snatched her blazer from the floor, scooped Rosie up, and jogged from the room without looking back.

Lisbon's eyes only followed him for a moment before resuming her search for the fire extinguisher. She thought she remembered seeing a red shape under the sink before dinner. Making her way once more through the patches of flame spouting from the floor, she pulled hard on the cabinet handle. It wouldn't open. She tried again and again, but the thickening smoke was clouding her mind and her lungs. Every breath scorched her throat and threw her into a renewed bout of coughing until tears streamed down her grimy cheeks. The metal handle grew hot under her touch and she shifted her grip to the top edge of the door. Her fingers caught on something plastic. A baby lock. Fumbling to disengage it, she finally pulled the door open. And there, behind several bottles of dish detergent and a pile of dried sponges, was the dusty red cylinder of the fire extinguisher. The cloud temporarily lifted from her mind, she snatched it up and pulled the pin, aiming the gushing foam first at the body, and then at the patches of flame scattered around the room. As the haze returned and the world grew dark around the edges, she felt a wave of relief comparable only to drawing the first breath after being trapped underwater.

...

The sun rose that morning in a pale blue sky, the heartbeat of its rays thumping across the waves of dewy grass that spread along the edge of the woods. Jane stood on a hill looking over the thin aspens, watching the clear, cool sunlight filter through the lace of the interwoven branches, a pattern of light and dark like the stained glass of cathedrals. If he looked closely, he thought he could see each vein as it traced its way through the crimson leaves.

Everything seemed so much shaper this morning. It was as though the answer to life itself was in the rustle of damp grass, in the color of the sky, in the wetness seeping through the soles of his shoes and into the hem of his trousers. He could feel every breath as it rumbled through his chest.

The smell of smoke still hung in the air. If he turned around, the muted glare of flashing lights would still color the white walls of the farmhouse.

Cho had gotten there just in time. While he had been scouring the local hospitals for Rigsby, he had gotten a frantic call from the man himself, demanding that he immediately go and check on Grace and Rosie. Without waiting for an explanation, Cho drove off in one of the squad cars and had arrived just as Grace and her parents were returning from their walk. Upon seeing the smoke, the Van Pelts called 911 while Grace and Cho entered the house. They found Lisbon lying on the scorched kitchen floor next to the body of Red John and Jane on the back porch, Rosie clutched in one hand, Lisbon's phone in the other.

Jane could still remember the shadow of Cho bursting out the screen door, his silhouette stretched with the weight of Lisbon in his arms. He could still remember the way the sirens screeched and the rough hands of the man who had pried Rosie from his grip. He could still remember the fear in Grace's eyes as she ran, smoke-soaked, from the gurney carrying the dead body of Red John to the EMT carrying her daughter, the child's blank face covered in a too-large oxygen mask, half hidden against the young man's strong chest as she slept off the last of the sedatives. He could still remember Rigsby's voice on the phone as they each took turns reassuring him of their continued existence, and themselves of his. He could still remember how pale Lisbon's face was even under all the soot, and how her coarse voice seemed to echo distantly as she told him that Red John's body was fine and not to worry. He could still remember telling her not to be an idiot and hoping she knew what he meant.

But everything seemed to fall away in the clarity of this morning. It was still there, but as a memory stored behind glass and not an inhabitant of his mind that haunted his every thought.

Soft footsteps fell behind him. Lisbon drifted to his side, wrapped in a grey woolen blanket. Traces of ash still clung to her cheeks, but her eyes shone with a wary lightness.

Feeling again the finality of the moment, Jane searched the blue sky. The color had intensified over the last minutes into an almost painfully vivid cobalt. A bird trilled in the trees.

He let his chest expand once more only to find that the air had become trapped within it. He forced it out again. "Lisbon…"

She looked at him with the same quiet resolve that had stood there all these years, steadfast despite his wavering. But there was a new truth in it.

A breeze moved strands of limp hair across her face.

He drew another breath. "I'm sorry, Lisbon. It's my fault—I didn't…I couldn't…"

He was saved the burden of putting his resolution into unstable words by the feel of a smaller hand slipping into his and gripping tightly.

"Don't be an idiot, Jane."

The smile was tentative in its movement and rusty with disuse, but electrifying in its presence. It radiated through his chest and resonated to the tips of his fingers wrapped around Lisbon's.

"We did it," he breathed, just realizing it himself.

Lisbon's startled laugh burst forth with such abandon that he turned to her in alarm, only to see the unadulterated joy written in every line of her face. She grinned up at him.

"We did."

Red John was dead.

And they were very much alive.

* * *

August 8

Something was tapping his shoulder. He hummed his disapproval. The something tapped again, and he pried his eyes open just enough to catch a flash of red hair before clamping them shut once more.

"Jane, Lissa says you have to get up now."

"Hmm."

Rosie poked him in the arm. "She says she knows you're not really sleeping."

"Hmm."

"She says don't make her come out here and get you herself."

"Hmm."

Rosie fell silent for a few moments. He felt the couch dip as she clambered onto the leather cushion near his feet.

"Jane?"

"Hmm?"

"Who's 'Charlotte?'"

His eyes opened. Rosie was sitting at the end of the couch, her auburn hair tied back in a blue ribbon. It was her birthday. They were going to the park, like they did every year. He and Rigsby would buy her a vanilla ice cream cone from the vendor while Grace wasn't looking. Then they would swing so high that the chains jangled and Lisbon would shout at them to be careful. And then, as the sun set, he would hold her hand as they walked across the boardwalk and counted the beach umbrellas. The record was a hundred and fifty three, but only when they counted Cho's golf umbrella twice.

He looked into her waiting blue eyes and decided.

"How do you know about Charlotte?"

She gazed at him contemplatively. "You talk about her, sometimes, when you sleep."

Sitting up, he maneuvered so that he sat next to her and studied his hands before replying. "She was my daughter."

Rosie tilted her head, thick locks of hair falling over her shoulder. "Oh."

Jane turned to face her. She looked at him with a striking sincerity.

"Can I tell you a secret?"

Rosie nodded solemnly.

"Do you promise not to tell?"

"I promise," she whispered, eyes wide.

Jane leaned in close and whispered back. "You smile just like her."

"Really?"

"Really."

They sat in silence for a few moments, Rosie obviously processing the information she had been given. Then, without a word, she hopped down from the couch and left the room.

She returned a few minutes later with a ceramic cup. It was a bit cool to the touch, and the tea bag was still wrapped in paper, but as Jane took it and sipped appreciatively, he thought it was the best he had had in a very long time.


End file.
